


bits and pieces are alright with me

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Chair Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Eating Disordered Behaviors, Episode: s06e13 Unforgiven, M/M, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Season/Series 06, Self-Harm, Sexual Violence, Soulless Sam Winchester, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-05-21 16:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6058933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s legs hang wide and loose around chairs and diners and the passenger seat, and the tent of his pants is almost as big a burden as the broken cavern where his inner light ought to be.</p><p>Dean’s neck is stiff and he gets dressed in the bathroom.</p><p>They both have Dean in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamyshadows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamyshadows/gifts).



> I have never EVER written anything so quickly (especially so hopped up on meds) so I sincerely hope this trash is readable. I love soulless!Sam but I thought my first foray into this would be longer (we'll see about next time).
> 
> Take this filth, lady!
> 
> Title taken from Edge of the Earth by Kid Cudi.

Sam wonders how he never saw it before.

Maybe it wasn’t as obvious when Saint-Sam drove the chariot, but now it’s blessedly empty in here.

It’s like a tomb; Nazarene-gut of space, and Sam breathes out so heavy when he thinks about it; opens his mouth wide so he can fill up that deephungry place inside that gnaws its way loose every morning.

Sam thinks his brother is beautiful.

Sam knows there is a God.

These two truths are mutually exclusive.

Only a God would think to make something like Dean and offer it no protection.

Saint-Sam would never touch.

-

Sam knows they don’t think it of him; none of them think that this Sam has the capacity; not the way Saint-Sam’s got.

If anything; the new and improved model is better.

Sam understands everything just the way he’s meant to.

He follows the dull shine of his brother’s hair, graveyard-stick of it to the nape of his neck and when Sam’s dick fills he palms it.

Sam’s legs hang wide and loose around chairs and diners and the passenger seat, and the tent of his pants is almost as big a burden as the broken cavern where his inner light ought to be.

Dean’s neck is stiff and he gets dressed in the bathroom.

-

He’s not a  _ monster. _

They think it of him; it doesn’t hurt (Sam remembers Saint-Sam’s thoughts on his monster-hood and it chafes residually. The idea of it is supposed to sting-burn it’s way inside Sam’s consciousness, but Saint-Sam has been an animal and so has this Sam and they’re both children of the Devil).

They’ve got it wrong.

He knows it’s a product of their limited reach; it’s difficult to understand a concept when you’re mired down by morality and need and love and honor.

Sam’s got no innate desire to harm anyone.

But he’s untouchable, and everything is fair game.

-

Dean’s caught in the crossfire, inevitably.

Saint-Sam’s screaming somewhere far away; Sam wants to see Dean’s neck tip-tilted flush with pinpricks and blood.

He tries to smile like Saint-Sam for Dean sometimes; but that night, when he looks at Dean and waits for his brother to be changed into something  _ other _ , it’s only a fond hurt.

No one ever explained how exhausting it is to be something he’s not.

It’s one of the things he and Saint-Sam have in common.

-

They both have Dean.

-

 

When it happens; when he makes it happen; Sam’s only concern is that it didn’t happen sooner.

He’s been too busy with the Campbells to give his brother proper attention and Dean has suffered for it. Dean’s back is Bond-straight; curses and calls him Robocop like Sam’s got feelings that can be twisted up about it.

(He feels Saint-Sam’s soul; they don’t know that he’s still tethered to it; it twinges like a fine line)

Sam’s sure he could have been more subtle, but he’s tired of waiting, and he wants to feel the hard shine of Dean’s teeth slip-slide around his dick.

It aches.

So does he.

Dean clips his head against the side of the table when Sam pushes him down, stomach first, and it’s only Dean’s brace of hands against wood that keep him from toppling all the way to the floor.

“Motherfucker!” Dean yells, and he’s spinning, one elbow swung back into a smooth point for Sam to take to the neck.

Sam sidesteps the blow with ease; twists Dean right back around and puts him in a grappling hold; Dean’s right arm twisted high up on his back.

Dean swings back with his legs; Sam marvels at the lack of finesse in the motion.

Dean’s panicked.

“This the part where you tell me you wanted me dead all along,” Dean hisses, and he snakes his free hand back but Sam catches hold of that by the wrist.

“Stay down,” Sam says; he makes his voice Saint-Sam pleasant. He’s amendable.

“Now I know you ain’t him,” Dean mutters, arches his spine in a manner that’s got to painful.

Sam hums in thought.

“I know you won’t,” Sam says. “M’asking you to take it under advisement.”

Dean laughs; it’s a dirty sound and Sam’s hips jerk forward and connect with Dean’s ass. He’s instantly sorry there are two layers between them.

He’s seen the rosebud of Dean’s ass, high cream and strawberry, and he wants to come inside that blush like nothing else.

It’s the strongest thing that he’s felt, and his want beats in time with Saint-Sam’s; locked up so far down in that cage of ice and fire.

“Advisement?” Dean yells, and Sam’s too slow; Dean headbangs and the back of Dean’s skull clips Sam against the mouth.

Sam shoves his whole body against Dean’s in response and uses the momentum to force Dean flat against the wood.

Sam doesn’t give an inch, brackets the backs of Dean’s legs with his thighs, Dean’s hands pinned together against the small of his back.

Sam shudders forward once and Dean falls unnaturally still, swollen line of Sam’s dick buried in the direct crease of Dean’s ass.

“Christ,” Dean says. “I shoulda killed you. I should’ve fucking broken your  _ back,”  _ Dean screams, but his air is restricted and it comes out on a high whine.

“I’m him,” Sam says carefully, shoves both of Dean’s wrists in his left hand to tangle with his belt buckle.

“You’re Dean,” Sam continues, and he presses forward harder when Dean begins to thrash around at the clink of metal.

“He sees you,” Sam says, and he’s pleased at how easy it is to unbutton these jeans one-handed. These are worn. Saint-Sam’s favorite.

“Saint-Sam, that is,” Sam says. “He likes your mouth.” 

Dean’s body stiffens so quickly that Sam laughs. 

“Don’t act so surprised; you know what it looks like,” Sam says.

“Did you know he knows you listen?” Sam says, and Dean’s struggles renew, all violent desperation, hips squirming and shaking and Sam’s gonna bury himself so low-down that he’s gonna know what a  _ home  _ is; he’s gonna be safe like Saint-Sam wants so damn much.

“He spits in his hand,” Sam says, jerking his jeans down to mid-thigh, boxers and all, and then he glances down at Sam’s dick, eleven-clean, blood-heavy and claret, trembling monster thing.

The most feral component of them both.

“Jerks it so loud; he’s right next to you man,” Sam says, and then he grinds forward with intent, raw scrape of denim over flesh.

“You never sleep heavy. Not since the shtriga,” Sam continues, and Dean’s body falls so limp that Sam would take that for submission if he didn’t have Saint-Sam’s memories.

“He was six, remember?” Sam says, and Dean’s body trembles minutely.

“Get outta his head,” Dean says lowly, and Sam reaches around Dean’s front.

“He’s right there with you, man,” Sam says, “why do y’think we’re here right now?”

Dean thrashes suddenly and Sam’s left hand is his weaker; Dean gets a fist free and slams it directly in Sam’s stomach, accurate even without his sight.

Sam grunts with the loss of air and catches the offending limb with his chest, leans low and pins Dean back down.

“He wants to open up pretty for you,” Sam whispers, mouth wet and blind next to Dean’s ear.

“Wants to hold his legs open for big brother, you know that?” Sam confides, and he’s rewarded by the low growl from Dean’s throat.

It’s tremulous at best, and Dean’s eyes are shut so tight Sam can’t even remember what color they are (spring-moss-mother-green) and Sam’s shaking with the want.

“He wants  _ this _ most,” Sam says, and Dean’s quavering; Sam can feel that.

“You won’t give it to him; he thinks,” Sam says, and this is the most he’s spoken to Dean; the most he’s sifted through the grip-painful laceration of Saint-Sam’s mind.

It’s nasty in here; it stinks like desecration and Sam doesn’t know how anything reaches the sun to grow in this place.

“But I watch  _ you,”  _ Sam says, and his hand pats around Dean’s pocket and up his thigh and closes around the diamond-cut of Dean’s dick, jerking spasmodically within his jean-prison.

“You want him back, want him home,” Sam admits, and Dean’s cheek is smashed firm against wood, temple bleeding sluggishly.

“Fuck, you never shut your goddamned mouth, d’you,” Dean spits, blood puddling around his right eye, blanket-swaddle.

“It’s a punishment,” Sam says, and kicks Dean’s legs wider, bow-legged V of welcome.

“You want him to burn you up,” Sam says, and Sam’s done wasting time, drags Dean’s belt off and unzips in the next breath, tugs hard. Dean’s jeans collect around the catch of his boots and Sam’s one hand spans the entirety of that ass, just as warm as Saint-Sam imagined.

It’s a flame, alright.

“First Dad, now Sammy, and you’re here; they keep  _ giving  _ for you; that right?” Sam says, and Dean’s body shoots forward when Sam curls his fist around the thick length of his cock, drags it hot and hard.

“Wanna give something back,” Sam says-asks, and Dean’s face is wet but he’s cursing, steady stream of fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckmefuckyou that Sam’s game for.

He wants all of that.

Sam doesn’t want the dry-clutch that Dean’s ass will provide like this; he’s not trying to choke his cock to death in that bottomless place he’s about to go.

Lube’s in Saint-Sam’s front flannel pocket and Sam makes sure to tuck Dean’s wrist into his right hand before he pulls it out, uncaps it with his teeth and dribbles it down the line of Dean’s ass, damp wet and cleaving.

Dean spasms and then he’s talking again, loud and unfettered.

“You think I won’t murder you when you’re done,” Dean spits, “got your rocks off, you think I won’t beat you into the goddamn earth, fucking wearing my brother’s face,” Dean yells, and Sam doesn’t say anything, screws two fingers deep and Dean swears so loud that Sam wonders if he’ll lose his voice before they get to the good part.

“You won’t be able to walk right, much less take a punch,” Sam says, and he scissors wide once, peers into the dark-bright of Saint-Sam’s brother’s body and he thinks he wants to keep this.

He doesn’t know what this means; what this is, but he’s hungry.

Sam curls his fingers experimentally, twists them clockwise and there’s a smooth bump and Dean’s yell tapers off into a growl into a keen and Sam presses there again.

“Oh fuck you, fuck you you son of a goddamn bitch; Christ, Christ, Jesus,” Dean yells and Sam massages that Dean-quiet place and his brother’s hips circle his fingers wildly and Sam cannot  _ wait. _

He pulls his fingers free with a squelch and coats Saint-Sam’s dick liberally, rubs it loose and heavy over Sam’s beast of a cock and pops it through Dean’s rim with a glide.

It’s the only smooth part of the ride because Sam shoves three more inches in and Dean’s nails are scrabbling at Sam’s hands and Dean’s chest is shoving the table up a few inches and he’s not even making words anymore; he’s so loud.

“Take it, take it and say thanks,” Sam says tightly, and he’s brutal, presses on until his balls slap Dean’s peach-fuzz cheeks and Dean’s rim is swollen-hot and narrow. Sam uses one hand to trace the mouth of it, sweaty fingertips quivering against the shine.

Sam releases Dean’s hands entirely to jerk Dean up by the hips, pull him off so only the crown of Sam’s dick shines within his ass and then drags him back down, snaps his hips back up in tandem with the motion.

Dean’s hands fly to the corners of the table to brace for impact and Sam laughs, wild and free as he repeats the motion, pushes close enough to shove Dean up on tiptoes.

“This what you wanted,” Sam grunts, and Dean’s head is bowed, hungry-moans spilling out of his mouth; Dean’s not with him anymore.

“C’mon, you looked at it when it was dark; you couldn’t see him but he sure as fuck saw you,” Sam says, twists his pelvis counter-clockwise and Dean screams.

“Too late,” Sam says and Jesus; he’s about to come. He’s only twelve strokes in and he’s about to cream his brother up good, leave him leaking.

Dean’s rim flutters around the strain of taking it, and Sam likes the look on him.

Dean’s mouth leaks little  _ unh unh unhs  _ and Sam forces more of those out. 

“Tell me,” Sam says, “tell me what it feels like an’ I’ll let you come,” Sam says, curls his toes in Saint-Sam’s boots so he can stave off his orgasm.

“You better hope you run as fast as him,” Dean says, and Sam pauses in his onslaught, dick atremble in Dean’s hole.

“Do better,” Sam says. 

“Jesus,” Dean says, voice barely alive. “Fuck you. Fuck you; it’s big and s’gonna break me and m’gonna come all over his dick, you got me,” Dean says.

“You hear me, motherfucker, m’gonna fucking come all over my kid brother’s dick and then I’m gonna bring him back, m’gonna bring him back and kill you, sonovabitch--” Dean’s saying but Sam’s got what he wants and he pummels Dean back down into the table.

Dean’s a rigid exclamation point right before he comes, spine rucked pretty. His ass clenches past the point of pain and Dean whimpers so loud that Sam follows him over the finish line without a second thought.

Dean’s body slams flat and when Sam pulls out he follows the red-tinged streak of Saint-Sam’s cream down Dean’s inner thigh.

Saint-Sam howls and Lucifer laughs and they all mix with the peace in Sam’s head.

-

The Wall fissures and leaks this one through.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam can hear Dean shake at night; his body is sturdy and dependable and it rocks his bed up against wallpaper and plaster.

Saint-Sam’s closer in the dark; Sam can feel the detached twinge; Lucifer’s fingers hooked like a lure into Sam’s mythical soul.

Saint-Sam’s been quieter After Dean; he’s enfeebled.

Sam shivers with the newfound silence; it cycles through his head and comes to rest peacefully in the center of his chest.

Dean makes his own neck bleed at night.

-

It becomes less than conducive.

Dean loses fifteen pounds in three weeks and his ribs knife against Sam’s chest when they squeeze through doorways at the same time.

Dean doesn’t flinch when Sam gets close; this horrifies Saint-Sam in a way that Sam can’t understand.

Dean talks to him.

The words pass through the air like chimes but Dean speaks, disassembles his Ruger methodically.

“You like, walking dead in there?” Dean asks. “Door’s open but Sammy’s out for a drink?”

Sam likes to watch, hums calmly as Dean takes scopes and sights off first, arranges the accessories in a pile only he can understand. The rag he uses for this is grease-stained and tattered and Dean lays it across his left shoulder every time.

The mag is next and then Dean balances the rifle on his right shoulder to inspect whether or not any rounds are left.

Sam considers how easy it would be to finish Dean with it, whip the rifle up over his head and down, againagainagain, Picasso Dean abstract, complete his brother.

Saint-Sam does not cringe.

-

Dean marries whiskey while Saint-Sam and Lucifer fingerpaint down in the Cage and Sam acts as the witness.

Sam refills Dean’s glass every so often, two fingers that Dean takes to the neck every two and a half minutes; Saint-Sam’s a fucking whiz at math.

It’s funny; the things he finds crawling around Saint’s no-mind; things that Sam doesn’t know if Dean’s even aware of.

Saint can calculate to decimal point accuracy, considered engineering as a career field before picking up Law and settling Winchester stiff-limbs into it.

Saint can tangle his mind around Spanish conjugations quicker than Sam can fake it, and he keeps it quiet, _geek-boy_ reverberating throughout that egg-head of his.

Saint wants Dean splayed out across his chest, wants their limbs tangled together, wants to rub Dean’s saline-tears back into his skin with the pads of his thumbs.

Dean’s drinking but Sam’s gonna be sick.

-

He’s fettered to Saint’s soul like a horse to a cart.

Sam’s dragging them both along; Saint drawn and quartered behind him, except he doesn’t scream in agony like he used to.

Sam feels Saint like an intrusive thought; he can sense when Lucifer’s running Saint through the wringer, watches the film roll.

Saint can see him too; Lucifer allows the pleasure.

Sam burns Dean hotter for that reason. He can’t cauterize Saint besides.

-

Dean’s got Jack leaking from his ears down his chest and collecting in his toes; he sways so hard he clips the side of the Impala and rears back, fight-ready.

Sam pickpockets him easy, opens the passenger door and hip checks Dean inside.

He’s across the span of the car and into the driver’s seat before Dean’s found his way upright.

Dean struggles for a second, and Sam watches him, mildly amused. Dean’s a friendly drunk; he sings karaoke with a voice that Saint’s jealous of, wants the melody to himself.

Saint is possessive in a way that rankles Sam. It swims in his blood and makes him foolish. Neither he nor Saint is stupid; Dean created them that way.

Dean steals things he’s got no intention of owning, and Sam takes his turns carefully, even as the crown of Dean’s head smacks against his thigh with every careen.

“You’re gonna throw up,” Sam says plainly, and Dean snorts, but it sounds more like a gurgle.

“Prolly choke,” Dean admits, and Sam squints and spies motel lights in the distance. Saint’s eyes are failing.

“Then sit the fuck up,” Sam offers, and merges into the right lane; there’s no one else out but he and Dean and they’re both too reckless to sit down and _stay_ there.

“Sammy knows the Heimlich,” Dean says carelessly, and Sam pulls them into a parallel park right before he jerks Dean up by the lapel.

Dean’s head lolls once precariously, and then he wraps his callused hands around Sam’s wrist and shoves.

Sam’s had two beers and even those are branded away by the anger in their blood; Dean’s losing weight and hasn’t got a chance.

“I ain’t him,” Sam says thickly, but that’s a lie too. He’s more Saint-Sam than himself, but he’s the abridged version; he’s Saint Frankensteined.

He’s the decay and rot cobbled together in man-form and Mary Shelley would be proud.

Her monster breathes and he bleeds.

“Sure ya are,” Dean says; his breath hot and cumbersome with liquor.

“You look like ‘im,” Dean continues, the grip he’s got on Sam’s forearms slackening. “You sound like him,” Dean says; his hands drop and collect down against leather; Sam holds him upright.

“Who’da thought you fucked like ‘im, too,” Dean says, and his voice is so clear that Sam peers closer on instinct, searches for the forbidden-forest of Dean’s eyes.

It’s too dark outside and Dean’s running on something Sam can’t tap into.

“He break you like this,” Sam says openly, and Dean’s still for a second. Sam’s fingers tighten on Saint’s instinct and Dean rears back an inch before Sam’s got him motionless again.

“C’mon,” Sam says, and he’s tired. He doesn’t recall feeling tired before.

He thinks it’s just a ghost-tremble of exhaustion; he doesn’t sleep and he doesn’t live.

Saint’s gettin’ skinned alive down below and Sam’s flesh tingles.

Dean trips his way out of the car, but Sam’s never seen Dean fall before and he doesn’t disappoint now. Dean braces himself against the hood of his car for a second and then he’s straight.

He flicks his lapel up neatly and strides to their door, gentle lurch of effort.

Sam walks slower; he can make it there in less time but he’s studying his brother. Dean’s swamped in his clothes and Sam tries to recall when Dean stopped eating; when he started running and killing on beer-vanity.

Sam’s got the keys and Dean doesn’t bother shying away from contact when they cross the threshold together.

Saint expects Dean to bolt and so does Sam but Dean’s shoulder knocks the wall just inside the room and he tilts his neck back.

“Go on, then,” he slurs, and Sam can’t help it; he raises his brows.

“What,” Sam says, scratches at the nape of his neck. Dean laughs, head thrown back open and Sam’s dick fattens so fast he grunts with the sensation.

“He wants to talk at me,” Dean explains, and Sam squirms; how can Dean know anything with the way the lights must be swimming in front of his eyes?

“He might wanna talk,” Sam says, making a decision and committing to it, “but I sure the fuck don’t,” Sam says, and Dean freezes, right there, collarbone shining and pink-flushed.

“What’s that you want,” Dean says, dragging his head back front and center.

“To bend you over,” Sam says, relishing the tremor that passes through big brother’s body.

“Push all up inside you,” Sam says, and he’s so close that Dean doesn’t move when he curls big hands around Dean’s shoulders and shoves his jacket down arms and fingers.

“Still talkin’,” Dean points out, and when he blinks his eyes disappear so long that Sam recites the color til they’re back.

Sam bodies Dean against the wall and looms so large and terrifying that he grins when Dean finally begins to shake, fine tremor through his emaciated frame.

Sam’s a terrible storm; he shoves Dean free of his t-shirt, unbuckles Dean’s belt and his jeans and knocks everything off so that it puddles below Dean’s knees and he can see the pale of Dean’s thighs.

Dean’s spider-bent down low; his legs hang open for Saint or Sam; maybe both.

“Feel like a man?” Dean whispers, and Sam’s hand is so abruptly tight around Dean’s throat that it takes Sam a claret-thick moment to realize that Dean’s laughing ugly around the constriction of his airway.

“Screwin’ me up tight inside; you a big man, Sam?” Dean says; his voice is a wet-wheeze but Saint can hear it and his eyes are open as Lucifer flays his back with mere words.

Lucifer lacerates Saint’s skin and then heals; absolves him until Saint breaks.

Sam releases Dean, hungry look at the wire-red around Dean’s neck.

“See, you’re gonna let me,” Sam says carelessly, and then he’s spinning Dean up against the wall, kicks his legs open so viciously that Dean has no hope of staunching the cry he releases.

“You gonna let Sammy wear your skin if he gets cold,” Sam snarls, and he blinks heavy at Dean’s ass, porcelain-wine stain.

Dean doesn’t answer but he cants his ass back and Sam groans so loud that Dean makes a corresponding sound.

“I can make you a real boy,” Dean spits, and Sam’s not shocked by anything but Dean’s grinning and Saint’s memories supply him with a reference for the word terror.

Sam’s fingers travel low and dip into the book-spine of Dean’s cheeks and he shoves two in at once.

He drags them loose almost instantly, wet-drip-squelch of lube curling between his fingers.

“Surprise,” Dean chortles, and Sam keeps Dean’s face painted to the wall, even though Sam’s body is vibrating so hard he’s coming loose at the seams.

“Cockblock, Sammy,” Dean’s liquored voice supplies, and Sam’s nails are digging into vulnerable skin.

“He got real deep too,” Dean says, wistful, writhes against the wall once, twice.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam says, and he’s mortified, round two. Dean laughs again, quieter, and Sam guides his cockhead up close and personal, spears Dean wide on the crown.

Dean’s laughter deepens into something primal and Sam’s eyes burn.

Saint cries.

“Jealous,” Dean says, breathless. “Tasted it, y’know, then you had to go around banging on doors, yelling my name,” Dean says, and Sam shoves home with a brutality he saved up for when Dean was playing Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.

Dean’s silent on the thrust in; Sam can see his mouth carved open, eyes squeezed shut.

Sam doesn’t waste anymore time; Dean won’t part his lips unless he’s asking Sam for more, and Sam’ll give him _everything_

Sam takes his hand away from Dean’s neck and curls it around Dean’s hip, instead.

The other hand he tangles around Dean’s chest, just below pebbled nipples, and he uses the leverage to drag Dean off and on his dick, slap his body against the wall.

Dean’s neck falls back, cradled by Sam’s shoulder.

“He gonna fuck you like this,” Sam says, and Dean’s eyes flutter shut.

“He doesn’t even know what you feel like, here,” Sam grits out, takes hand from hip and rubs his index and thumb around Dean’s split-slut rim, digs his thumbnail in deep.

Dean comes so hard and fast that Sam cries out, buries himself inadvertently deeper. Dean’s body seizes against him, and Sam watches his brother’s lips pout, follows the glisten of spit across top and bottom.

“M’not him,” Sam says, dick still abundant and firm inside Dean, useless twitch.

“Too late,” Dean gasps, and Sam comes, eyes open and staring.

-

Dean’s pants hang around his hips, billow.

He stops wearing towels.

-

Sam fists his dick at night; he watches Dean sleep with a fervor he only possesses for the chase.

Dean sleeps on his side; he faces Saint’s bed.

Dean used to rest loose, limbs splayed out on pillows, over his stomach, down between the arrow of his legs.

Sam can double wrap his brother’s wrist now, courtesy of big hands and Dean makes noises when he sleeps.

Sam gives his dick friction-burn, considers splashing Dean with his come, shoving it in between those violent lips.

Sam neglects his dick in favor of holding Dean’s wrists one-hand locked when he attempts to sleep-claw his own flesh to shreds.

Sam still spills white-oily in between their beds and Dean’s only made one rivulet of blood on this night.

-

“I once saved this kid from a Shrtiga,” Sam says blankly; Dean’s driving and Axl’s playing low.

Dean hums around the song and doesn’t look in Sam’s direction.

“Big hero, over here,” Dean says, just as blandly, and Sam chuckles warm and deep.

He watches Dean’s holocaust-fingers tighten on the wheel. Dean’s gonna collapse on him and Sam doesn’t understand how he’s supposed to keep Dean intact; his asset.

“Kid was eight,” Sam continues, and he takes Dean’s silence as permission. Dean’s stopped humming and Sam sighs in his seat, shifts so that his balls un-stick from his thigh.

“He’s so damn loud, cause he was asleep right, and then I’m over him, bloody,” Sam explains, and Dean’s eyes flick up to the rear view.

“Then his parents come in, screaming,” Sam says, and he digs his fingers into his thigh, dull flare of irritation from the pressure.

“S’loud as hell man, and he’s crying and they’re yelling,” Sam says, and Dean finally turns to face him.

“There a point here, Plato,” Dean asks, one brow raised. Dean directs his gaze back to non-traffic and Sam finally loosens his grip, drapes one free arm around Dean’s shoulders.

Dean stiffens immediately but he holds firm, and Sam can admire that.

“I thought about trying to explain,” Sam says, “strange man in their son’s room at night,” Sam continues, and he’s watching Dean so close he follows a bead of sweat in its journey down Dean’s arm.

“Wouldn’t have done shit, though,” Sam says, and then he pauses. “Didn’t have backup.”

Dean snorts at that and Sam bites back a grin.

“Who knew you were a Jewish mom, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam bellows this time, full-bodied laugh.

“I killed them,” Sam says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, laughter still leaking from between his teeth.

“Parents, then the kid,” Sam says.

“Can’t talk your way outta everything,” Sam finishes, and then he reaches over to the volume, turns November Rain up louder and taps out the beat against Dean’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of want to make this an arc where Saint has to deal with what his lesser self has done to Dean (trilogy and complete this), but we'll see if I can do it justice.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam rocks deeper when Dean’s perched in his lap, neck slung back on a curve.

Sam digs the edge of his own shoulder into Dean’s shoulder blade to act as a shelf, and he leans his chin over top to watch the proceedings.

Saint’s brother’s legs are flung wide, bracketed above Sam’s denim-thighs. 

Sam’s got his left arm wrapped around Dean’s chest in a band and he’s grinding, follows the pink line of his dick as it circles Dean’s hole.

Dean’s air is all trapped in his throat and between his teeth and Saint’s always admired Dean’s fortitude.

“C’mon,” Sam says pleasantly. “Moan for me.”

Dean trembles and Sam’s forearm tightens across pebbled nipples.

“I’ll give it to you,” Sam says, “just gotta make a little noise.” Sam ducks down to the vulnerable plain of Dean’s neck, dusted and simultaneously pale against Sam’s darker skin.

It’s studded with claret and starburst blue-violet and Sam sets the edge of his teeth down against his most recent claim.

A whimper stutters out of Dean’s mouth and Sam widens his lips so that he can suckle, coax reluctant-red up to the surface of Dean’s flesh.

Dean’s legs shudder open on the whine, toes scrabbling against the tops of Sam’s boots in search of purchase. 

Sam jerks his hips up, even though he’s already buried balls deep, slick-clutch of Dean’s ass slurping him home with every half-grind.

Dean’s eyes are squeezed shut and his hands hang limply by his sides, at odds with the proceedings.

Christ, but Sam would’ve never figured he liked watching so much, the slender cream-rouge of Dean’s body, all pliant and unfastened before him.

“C’mon, use your words,” Sam prods, and Dean’s body flinches.

“S’easy,” Sam says and he moves his mouth up so that it settles just over Dean’s pulse; the juncture between lower chin and the beginning of neck.

Sam bites down hard, sudden and brutal, and Dean’s mouth flies open on an honest wail and Saint’s thighs jitter so hard that Dean bounces in his lap.

“Sammy,” Sam says, “plug me up please,” Sam offers, and Dean’s lashes are thick and damp and they’re clumped like insects across the crimson of his cheeks.

“Big brother,” Sam says and Dean’s dick, colored bruise-dark and blood-heavy, trembles. It slaps against his lower abdomen, unwilling sheen of precome, and Dean’s so damp it’s obscene. 

“You this wet for me?” Sam says, moving his right hand so that the shadow of his palm hovers over Dean’s crown.

“Yes,” Dean hisses, and Sam covers his surprise by resting the the callused edges of his fingers down against Dean’s head.

Dean squeals and Sam bites down again on Dean’s pulse just to feel it flicker under the tip of his tongue.

“Yes what,” Sam asks, and when Sam looks; Dean’s face is wet, trail of rock salt for protection.

“Fuck me,” Dean gasps, and Sam catches a slight flash of tongue, all loose and hungry in Dean’s darkdamp mouth.

Belongs to him.

“Fuck me, c’mon, wanna feel you on my legs,” Dean says, and Sam’s gonna cream himself puberty-quick on that; Dean’s wooden thick thighs splashed so wide.

“His dick’s big, isn’t it,” Sam whispers, hush-close to Dean’s shelled ear, and Dean makes Sam’s favorite sound, honeyed-whine, all thick and cumbrous.

“Fucking answer me,” Sam says, and Dean’s nodding, sweat-moist hair catching against Saint’s flannel.

“Bigbigbig,” Dean says, “feel it in my throat,” Dean adds, and that’s more than Sam’s hoped for, more than he thinks Saint deserves so early in Sam’s game.

He’s a goddamn gentleman.

Sam sits fully upright, towering Saint’s hard-earned inches over top of big brother’s head and drops his arm from Dean’s chest to settle broad hands around Dean’s hipbones.

They’re jagged and they cut into his palms and Dean’s a waif-fairy in his arms because Sam lifts all night; he’s a sleepless giant resting guard at his tower.

Dean’s head falls back entirely, suspended on air and Sam’s whims, and Sam leans back to catch sight of his cock’s retreat from the prison of Dean’s body.

It slurps out, coated in wet, and Sam pauses, holds Dean levered in no-man’s land, catch of his rim around Saint’s crown and it’s unyielding.

Dean’s making noise now, unfettered, and Sam’s caught in Saint’s space. Dean’s legs are quivering and Sam slams him back down, cruel swallow of his dick.

Dean’s breath comes out on a sigh-whine and Sam drags his hands up further so that they wrap around Dean’s ribs, piano-key line of them, and Sam digs his fingertips in until they bleed white.

Dean’s partial to pain; Sam’s more surprised that Saint seems aware of it than the fact that he was born knowing.

Dean’s arms come up to brace himself on Sam’s thighs and Sam raises him up again. “Lemme,” Sam whispers and Dean’s nodding, voice mute.

Sam shoves him back down again, and his balls connect with the lube squirming free of Dean’s hole and it’s so messy and sticky that Dean’s gotta be soaked.

“You love it,” Sam says but he’s not asking and Dean’s already pressed well past his limit and Sam wants to see him at the edge.

“If you put him back right,” Sam huffs out, up/down ocean-rock of Dean in his lap, “who’s gonna give it to you like you need?” 

“I hate you,” Dean says, but it comes out limp and desperate and it makes Sam’s cock swell from where he’s swiveling it.

“Don’t be like that,” Sam says and then he’s standing, dick sliding free, chill of the room abrasive at best.

Dean sways when his feet touch the carpet, beige-yellow curling in his toes and Sam’s hand settles on the nape of Dean’s neck and his waist, respectively. 

Dean’s spine bubbles up and Sam counts the rungs absently. 

“Sam,” Dean says warningly, but Sam bodies his brother over to the bed and pushes him face flat, fists tangled in sex-stained sheets.

He’s fucked Saint’s brother in every corner of this room and it shows, milk-come on every surface.

“Fuck, fuck,” Dean’s muttering and he’s trying to rise up on his elbows but he’s so slow and syrup-lagged that Sam shoves him flat with one hand and uses the other to drag Dean’s hips up.

Dean’s presented, ass high and trembling and Sam peels his cheeks open to watch the gape of his hole, sputtering around the loss of Sam’s cock.

“Gonna take pictures,” Sam says, and Dean’s body vibrates as Sam shoves his belt further out of the way and grinds forward, slots his dick right back into the dark and knocks Dean face-first.

Dean wrists are knobby and he stays down and Sam’s so good at holding Saint back that he’s mildly unhinged by Saint’s sudden presence, soul-wisp of betrayal.

Lucifer’s got the slideshow playing, then.

Saint’s buzzed and Sam brushes one hand over his face before bulldozing into Dean’s ass, filthy squick of lube.

He lifts Dean up and on his dick; he’s bruising Saint’s pelvis with the force of his thrusts, and Dean’s dick bobs on the empty space between bed and his abdomen and Sam loves him.

“Gonna make yourself dirty?” Sam asks, and Dean’s face is smashed and his mouth is open and swollen and Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever give this up besides.

Dean’s eyes fly open when he comes; he wails so loud, baby-high keen, that Sam can’t stop his orgasm even if he wanted.

He comes untouched; Sam’s only managed that a handful of times, and he can see Dean’s dick spasm, full and locked and Dean’s making baby grunts.

“Uh huh, fuckfuck, yes, please,” Dean says, mindless, and Sam empties himself low, fucks Dean through it, the glide sloppier with added come.

As soon as Sam pulls out Dean slides back down to earth and Sam pulls back to watch his come seep out, Dean’s rim thin and bruised from the assault.

Saint’s hands fumble with the force of his release but he pats himself down for his camera and flips his phone open, zooms in on the ruin of Saint’s brother.

“Hold yourself open,” Sam says, and he laughs when Dean fights it, turns his head halfway to face Sam’s, eyes lidded.

“Go to hell,” Dean says, and Sam steps closer, dick still more than half-hard, hanging blank from his boxers.

“Soon,” Sam placates. “Do it,” he adds, and Dean’s eyes screw shut and Sam decides on a video as soon as he watches the slow crawl Dean’s hands make as he reaches down his back and spine to cup his asscheeks, pry them open careful for Sam’s view.

“Hurts,” Dean grits out, and Sam stalks closer; he’s got it all on film.

“Cockslut,” Sam says, Saint-fond, and Dean’s fingers jerk his flesh even wider.

-

Sam finds Dean perched on the edge of the toilet, legs hanging agape, cock tenting his boxers.

Dean’s still got his shirt on and open, and Sam leans against the door as Dean drags the flash-wink of silver across his upper thigh, careful incision.

Dean doesn’t flinch and when he looks up at Sam; his mouth is split.

“Here to help?” Dean asks, and Sam crosses forward in two strides, knocks Dean’s hand loose and the Bowie clatters to linoleum, dust and night-rain.

“All you gotta do,” Sam says, and it’s Saint who leans forward, digs the corner of his thumb into the shallow wound and bears down, “is fucking ask,” Sam says.

Dean’s eyes are obsidian and he licks his lips four times and his grin is more wolf than anything.

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

-

_ So you’re saying, having a soul equals suffering _

Saint can probably wrap his head around that, but Sam sees no logical outcome to the idea.

He’s got no use for wallowing, but Dean’s built of suffering and Sam cocks his brow at his brother. Dean’s smiling up at the waitress, one arm slung back against the back of the booth, like he’s gonna eat that Texan Surprise she’s got coming for him.

Sam grins wide when she turns to him, and her face flits back from Dean to Sam in confusion.

“Sweetheart; I’ll have the Cobb salad, m’brother here’ll have a water with lemon.” She pauses in her scrawl, opening her mouth to protest; Dean’s already ordered, and Sam leans closer.

“Problem?” Sam says, and she turns to Dean, but Dean’s staring at Sam and Sam likes it this way.

“Uh--no, I guess,” she says, flipping her pencil over to erase what she’s clearly just written.

Sam glances down at her ass as she walks away and Dean shoves himself forward, chest resting against the tabletop.

“The fuck?” Dean says, and Sam cocks his head to the side. “You telling me you were gonna eat that?” Sam asks, and Dean’s brow furrows.

“I ordered it, didn’t I?” 

Sam shakes his head and taps his fingers against the table.

“And I’m in your kid brother’s body,” Sam retorts and Dean rears back.

“S’not enough you gotta bend me over all the time?” Dean says, and Sam laces his fingers together.

“Apparently not,” Sam says, just to see if he can. The waitress is walking back; Dean’s water in one hand and Saint’s blank salad in the other and she smiles directly at Sam when she sets it all down.

“Anything else you need,” she says, and Dean opens his mouth but Sam’s hand closes over hers. “Not right now, but I’ll let you know,” he says and she disentangles her hand gently and giggles.

Dean’s too focused on Sam’s face to react, but as soon as she leaves he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and Saint follows the line of white down Dean’s right arm. The bandage is rolled double so there’s less of a chance of anything leaking through, and Dean runs two fingers across the packaging.

“Drink up, brother,” Sam says, lifts his own faux-glass to his mouth.

Dean tugs condensation closer and when he tips his neck back Saint I-spies four teeth-marks and this’ll never be enough.

-

Sam likes to watch Dean at the bar, the slim-lean of him, hovered over something dainty and small. 

Dean’s got a smile yards long and she doesn’t see the smudges under his eyes, can’t know about how Sam’s constantly got the blood rushing to Dean’s head from how often he keeps him sprawled on his stomach.

Can’t understand why Dean’s mottled with handprint-bruises; Dean’s ass is swollen and juicy. 

She’s never gonna be able to push him, and Sam salutes Saint’s brother with a Heineken, hair tucked behind one ear. 

Sam’s got a possessive splay across the lower back of whatever bitch has sidled up to him on this night and Dean deadpans with his own.

Dean’s eyes are dead-warm when Sam (finally) presses his palm to the back of Dean’s neck, road-mark fingers dipping into the hollow of Dean’s throat.

“Gotta get ‘im home before he gets too fucked up,” Sam apologizes and they always cling; they’re a little frightened and they don’t know why.

Dean used to elbow Saint back (I’m fine, back the fuck  _ off _ ), but he’s the Corpse Bride now and he untangles himself smoothly; Sam takes the lead.

-

“You know m’gonna plug Sam back in,” Dean hisses, and he’s sprawled over Sam’s lap, ass tinged bloody and naked, and Sam’s got his shirt off but his shorts on and his palm spans the entirety of Dean’s backside.

“I want you to,” Sam says, and when he brings his hand down Dean bucks up.

“No matter what the fuck you think,” Dean grinds out, and he’s moving his pelvis up and across, searching for friction against polyester.

“He’s up in there,” Dean says, and Sam digs his fingernails in just to see Dean’s ass drain pale and then return to blush.

“He’s gonna miss this,” Sam says conversationally, and Dean squirms.

“Ass up for me,” Sam continues, and he uses his left palm to hold Dean flat and screws two fingers in tight, scrapes Dean’s insides raw.

Dean shoves himself forward, away, but Sam’s stronger and Dean’s ribs jab into Sam’s thighs.

Sam twists his fingers deep and scissors them wide, coating of lube within Dean’s hole providing him with a slick swim.

“Uh uh, uh,” Dean moans, and Sam’s mouth is so wide that Saint’s dimples are permanently carved into his cheeks.

“What’s that feel like,” Sam asks, and they’re both curious; they wanna know what makes Dean so hot that he comes back, head bowed and chastised, forlorn.

“No.” Dean says, and Sam presses his ring finger alongside, no warning.

“C’mon; you wanna be Sammy’s slut so bad?” Sam says. “Tell me and I’ll get you full like you like,” Sam says.

“Fuck,” Dean says.

“Hot, it burns’n I want you out,” Dean whispers. 

“But you wanna die on my dick more,” Sam finishes and he pulls his fingers free with a loud slurp.

Dean whimpers and arches his ass up involuntarily. “Lay the fuck down,” Sam says; he’s vibrating and he doesn’t know why; will Dean let Sam strangle him to death?

“Fuck yourself,” Sam says, shoving Dean off so that he rolls onto his back, bedspread connecting with the flame of his punished ass.

Dean’s eyes are wide and he instinctively recoils from the pain.

“Sam,” Dean says, but Sam’s cock is a hard angle in his shorts and Dean’s so high and desperate, open statement.

“On your fingers,” Sam huffs, and he steps closer when Dean blinks up at him languidly, follows the bruised terrain of Dean’s skin; Dean’s Saint-body, the catch of bone and taut flesh.

Sam drags Dean up to his knees by the throat and Dean’s eyes go hooded instantly, dick throbbing in counterpoint to Sam’s pressure.

“Yeah, you’re a fucking whore for it,” Sam observes, and Dean’s eyes close entirely as he reaches his fingers down to his own hole and slides one up, easy as you please.

“Another one,” Sam commands and Dean flutters in Sam’s grasp as he follows suit.

“C’mon,” Sam laughs, “tell little brother how much you fucking miss his dick,” Sam says, and he’s blinded by the Red and Black and Saint’s almost unrecognizable as human, mutilated as he is.

“You see that?” Sam says; he’s not sure who he’s addressing anymore. 

Dean’s mouth is open and his whines are gasps because Sam’s holding so tight that Dean’s barely breathing and he’s humping himself down on his index and middle.

Dean’s orgasm takes him by surprise and he groans loudly through it. Sam releases him instantly and Dean crumples rag-doll, fingers still tucked tight.

His dick is a mess, residual lube and come, and he’s a wire of bone and angles contorted in his own filth.

“Okay?” Dean says, and Sam’s laugh sounds Saint-similar.

“Stay just like that,” Sam says, and the door is a tranquil click when he shuts it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a lying liar who lies; next chapter; Saint's coming home y'all.
> 
> [Reblog it!](http://brosamigos.tumblr.com/post/140807103680/chapter-3-bits-and-pieces-are-alright-with-me#notes)


	4. Chapter 4

When they lock him back inside his soul, it’s constrictive.

That’s an understatement for the cacophony that Sam feels when he free-falls into awareness.

Sam I Am, or Sam That I Was, barely.

Bobby’s panic room still smells the same, rank, airless vault and, if Sam sniffs hard, like blood. Like forbidden thirst and Sam’s brother’s horror. It still sings with that.

He thinks to stand, wills his legs to roll over and haul his body upright. Nothing happens. Sam’s first thought is to scream and that dies, too.

It’s dark in here and when he searches for the memory, the last thing he understands is being Lucifer-locked, tumbling down into the abyss.

He can’t open his eyes.

-

He thinks it’s funny that he can hear well enough, despite the fact that his eyes won’t respond to the demand to witness.

He hears Cas, familiar flutter-snap of invisible wings. Sam begs his fingers to twitch but he remains motionless.

There’s a hum under his skin, in his brain, like if he concentrates just enough he’ll be able to make out the tune.

Sam’s got a lot of time to wonder, recall the pinprick of an IV, tangled around hand and wrist. He’s got the opportunity to sort through the no-sound of the enclosed room, and it chafes.

“Is he ever gonna wake up?”

That’s Dean--but it’s not, cognitive dissonance.

His brother doesn’t sound like that, stale-sibilance of vowels and consonants. Sam understands that Cas won’t recognize, no matter how much he loves Sam’s brother.

Sam’s disagreeable eyes won’t respond and so he can’t see Dean, can’t tell what his brother’s thinking.

Dean’s not facing his body, removed and just outside the panic room. Sam’s aware of Dean’s orientation in space and he thinks Dean could return the favor, understand.

“I am not a human doctor, Dean,” Cas replies, and Sam snorts, in his own head, of course. Well, 99% of what afflicts a Winchester is preternatural in origin, so Cas should have a handle on that sort of thing.

“Could you take a guess?” Dean says, so dry it might as well flake. Sam’s throat aches and he needs to see his brother. 

“Okay,” Cas says, “probably not.” 

Sam’s sure he winces on the table, his fingers stutter and clench, but he’s as uncoordinated and limp-heavy as he’s been brought back.

Dean makes a sound, faint and far-off, and then “okay.”

“Well, don’t sugarcoat it.”

Sam isn’t certain what he’s gonna wake up to.

-

_ Like it had been skinned alive. _

That’s what they think of his soul, light-bright and untarnished in the Before.

Sam searches for it, something he’s never consciously thought to do in the past. He finds it easily, formerly vacant gape of his consciousness. 

It’s shining; lukewarm and heavier than he expects. He reaches out to it and recoils when he brushes against it.

There’s a hairline fracture and something onyx and viscous seeps out and lingers, coating the tips of his fingers and his lungs.

They don’t know how hard it is to breathe down here.

There’s a flash of cream and wheat-grain, intimate blood, and then nothing.

Oh.

That’s right.

-

Sam’s body decides to come back online in one sudden thrust.

One second Sam’s gingerly stepping around the counterfeit sheen of his soul, and then he’s sitting up, regardless of will.

Sam rockets upright with a lurch; unused to the autonomy of it.

He flexes his arm experimentally and cocks his head to the side. He can hear Bobby’s grumble upstairs and Dean’s voice, lower than he expects.

Dean takes up a lot of space wherever he goes; it’s necessary. Dean can’t blend in. Sam’s always been better at that than him, regardless of height.

Sam’s brother’s good at insinuating himself into a population, but that’s not the same as true fusion. Dean sticks out like a sore thumb. He looks like something tasty and reverent, some priest-penance to spoil.

Sam doesn’t taste like that and they’ve always known. 

It’s disconcerting not to hear Dean; the stutter-whisper of his brother’s voice.

Sam’s gait is fine when he walks, and he follows the sound to the living room, Bobby’s matter-of-fact drawl.

“They found the pilot seventeen miles away,” Bobby says, and Dean dips his head, legs open.

“Okay, m’not changing the channel.” Dean says, faux-firm.

“Dean,” Sam says, not the first of what he wanted to say, but what other word is left intact?

Dean whips his head around so hard there’s a crack, and Sam’s put-off. There’s something queasy in the intensity of that turn, but Sam’s brother is already standing, eyes terror-wide.

“Sam?”

Sam flinches at the sound of Dean’s voice, so raw-hungry and inelastic. He tugs his brother in hard, one arm slung around the curve of Dean’s shoulder and he doesn’t miss the sag Dean’s body makes once he’s close enough.

-

Asks Dean if there’s anything he should know.

Sam’s brother won’t look him hard in the eye. Dean looks at him often enough alright, twitch of fingers to ensure Sam’s there.

Dean’s voice and face are lopsided, though and Sam gets the feeling that if he reaches out to Dean that his brother’s gonna haul-off and punch him, or completely deflate.

Dean’s leaning back against the door of the Impala, groan of metal, when Sam blinks his way out of Dakota and into the fuck-trap of his own head.

There’s a crimson splay here, boardwalk of blood. He steps around it and then realizes that it’s impossible.

Everything is dark within him and then there’s a voice. One voice, to be specific. His own.

It’s him but not him--that Soulless fuck that’s been running around with his head and dick, sitting-pretty next to Dean.

His stomach roils with bile and he can’t understand that reaction, the ferocity.

“Ask him how he’s been, Sammy,” he hears, and he whips his head in the nothing; his boots are black-claret with blood and growing.

It brushes up against his ankles, denim.

“Remind him how much he misses me.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Sam screams, but it comes out calm, comes out flavorless.

The blood rises into a wave and crests over Sam’s head right before he comes back to himself.

Dean’s got one hand locked around Sam’s shoulder and the other on Sam’s wrist. Sam knocks Dean back two paces, brutal shove to the sternum and Dean’s eyes blink molasses-slow.

Dean nods, deaf-mute, and Sam follows the line of his brother’s body as he stalks back into Bobby’s house, limp tilt of his head.

-

Sam’s eyeballs deep in trying to figure out just how a girl can vanish from the uppermost floor of her apartment when Dean shrugs on his jacket, avoids Sam’s gaze.

“Going out,” he says, and Sam can’t help the disbelieving sound he makes, laptop decorative before him.

“I just got humpty-dumptied and you’re going for a drink?” 

Dean rubs angrily at the back of his neck.

“Didn’t say you couldn’t come,” Dean says, and Sam’s standing then, pissed off more than he’s got a right to be.

“Okay then,” he says harshly, and Dean’s entire body shudders when Sam slams his laptop shut, unbuttons the remaining buttons of his flannel and shoves the whole thing down his arms and off.

Dean wants to play careless? That’s fine by him.

“I’ll choose,” Sam says, bumps shoulders so hard with his brother on the stride past that Dean loses his balance and stumbles to the left.

Sam’s colored-shame with the insidious nature of his anger, but here’s his brother, hunting and dying without a care for it, and Sam: just brought back from what sounds like zombie-death.

Dean follows half a pace behind Sam when they leave, doesn’t object when Sam flips his palm up for the keys.

Sam figures Dean realizes he’s been dead; hollowed out.

Dean  _ owes  _ him that much.

-

Sam’s seven angry shots in, five of those straight Jack and the other two Rumplemintz, courtesy of some well-meaning, but completely addled college-girl two seats down.

Sam’s not fond of the Christmas-dildo-candy-cane taste, but it’s 100 proof and it burns like nothing at all when he takes them directly to the head.

It’s not until he’s sipping at a lemon water that he realizes Dean’s not with him, not in the same room anymore, at least.

Place is fairly big, five or so adjoining rooms, each with a different decor and corresponding college bar theme.

It’s not upscale; Dean would never stand for that, but it’s not the one room dog-and-pony-show Sam’s brother is so fond of.

There’s a pool-hall down at the opposite end; there’s a game on tonight and that room remains mostly neglected.

Dean’s more than likely hustling there, taking advantage of fucks who think that they’ll have an easy win because no one worth their weight at the game is playing when the Finals are showing.

Sam’s irritated, Round Two. Sam’s too feeble to help out with a simple hustle? Prop Dean up and split the difference? (Tuck it all into Sammy’s pocket because Dean hates being responsible for the money)?

He holds the shot glass in one fist, tugs on the stretched out collar of his t-shirt; it’s nicotine-hot in here.

Screams of the losing team fade around him; the corridor is long and smoke-ridden; he knows he’s got a knife tucked in his boot.

He hears his brother’s voice a second before he rounds the corner.

Too-bad he’s too late in an ever-growing list of failures.

Dean’s hustling alright.

Sam’s eyes adjust John-quick; he takes in the four guys huddled around his stranded brother. Dean’s upper body is slumped defenseless over top of the pool table, arms cradled around his head.

His cheek is smashed on sickly-green, pants tugged all the way off, boots and socks too. Sam does a half turn to the left, finds Dean’s clothes piled up in a relatively neat corner.

He can see Dean’s shirt there, sweat-stained and grey.

His brother’s naked. His brother’s butt-ass naked, like he took the care and time for it, and Sam’s listening to him make elongated-raw noises.

Sam’s brother’s getting fucked and that voice is back, silk-pretty.

“Christ; he misses me.”

That the sound of it, the echo, and Sam can see himself, superimposed.

Sam watches the Not-Sam, the Soulless of him, broad palm flat in the center of Dean’s back.

Dean’s fingers all twisted up inside himself, splayed over the legs of Sam-the-False-Prophet.

Open and dangling, puffy-pink mouth open wide on a scream--Sam’s name gurgled in Dean’s throat.

Glass shatters, slip-tossed from Sam’s hand.

The guy fucking his brother turns around; the other three are too concerned with Dean to care, one is inching closer, meaty hand tangled around Dean’s compliant neck, pressing him further into the table even though there’s no more space for Dean to take up.

Dean groans.

_ Please _

The one at Dean’s backside moves away, just enough to squint at Sam, and Sam’s eyes adjust to the bar-haze, to the sight of his brother splayed and at the mercy of guys his size and bigger.

The guy’s dick isn’t pistoning in and out of Dean’s ass like Sam had first thought--it’s worse than that, throws him for a bigger loop; Sam’s already gonna retch all over this floor.

Dean’s ass is spread wide, gaped around the slick wood of a pool-stick, straining at the rim.

Sam’s next to the scene and Dean’s eyes flutter open, drunk and loose and when they see Sam; barren recognition. Dean doesn’t move though; his body remains lax and pliant.

Sam blinks his head free of what he remembered  _ imagined  _ and thinks about how drunk Dean looks, mouth slack, baby grunts forced out of his mouth.

Sam watches the slip n’ slide jerk of Dean’s body, undeniable friction-burn.

“Called next,” Pool-Stick mutters, eyes focused lazily on the grip and drag of Dean’s ass, thick-hot pull. “You c’n have after them, though,” the guy says.

Pool-Stick reaches up one whiskey-sticky palm and drops it on the back of Dean’s neck, heavy-slap.

“Tell ‘im how much you begged us,” Pool-Stick commands, voice sloppy with drink and the proximity to Sam’s brother.

Dean’s body spasms and he opens that wet-wine mouth and Sam hauls his arm back and his fist connects with a crunch to Pool-Stick’s nose.

Sam drives his fist so hard and firm into the soft cartilage that he impels it up Stick’s skull and Sam knows the man’s dead before he hits the floor.

Sam’s always in control of his kill shots and he’s worried that he’s not more concerned about the lack of it here.

The man clatters to the floor like a stone, hand drop-slapping away from the stick buried in Dean’s ass.

Sam’s brother cries out in what should be pain but sounds more like pleasure and Sam whirls on the other three.

He doesn’t know what he looks like, doesn’t particularly care, but they must see the Devil (Sam would know) and they turn tail, uncoordinated and run. They clip against walls and trip over the smooth floor on the way out and Sam tilts his head back to the yellow-cream light fixtures dangling overhead.

“S’mmy,” Dean rumbles and the pool stick is heavy; Dean’s back is hunched in order to keep from carrying all of its weight in his ass.

It dangles from his ass to brush against the ground and when Sam’s hand connects to it, Dean moans so loud that Sam slaps a palm over his mouth in panic.

“What in the fuck is this, Dean?” Sam says, his words are bruised and he’s twitching in his pants, some kind of Pavlovian response he isn’t aware of having.

Dean’s nude and stained, the flex of his milk-pale ass and Sam drops one hand on the right cheek without thought.

Dean squirms back into the hand eagerly and Sam’s on fire.

He blinks twice to the image of  _ himself  _ tangled together with his brother, cavern smile and wilder eyes.

Sam’s brother begs.

“Please, please,” Dean says, pushing back against the wood, wriggling hips and legs.

“More, jus’ a lil bit,” Dean says and Sam’s brother is crying, limp-damp into the felt. “Unh, unh,” Dean says, desperate struggle.

Sam’s hand is so tight against the stick that his knuckles bleed colorless, and he raises it an inch from the ground, braces himself to gently tug it free.

Dean’s knees lock and his back jolts. Sam makes one backwards pull and Dean’s body bows like a string and he comes, spraying all over the edge of the table, brown-black wood.

It’s Soulless laughing when Sam finally rips it free, ignores the tell-tale splatter of his brother’s blood on wood. 

-

Dean’s not sick.

He's not roofied, and after a flash of silver and  _ omnis immunde spiritus _ , he's not housing any extras, either. 

Sam hauls him up by the neck, loops his free hand around Dean’s collarbone. 

Dean hangs limp in his arms, smells like the center of a brewery, Jack and Coke. 

Sam’s dick is twitching violently, pressing at the center of his zipper like a snake’s tongue, slither of temptation. 

Dean’s loose and pale, firm twins of his ass shoved against Sam’s thigh. 

Sam’s stomach lurches and he vomits, turns his head at the last instant and it splashes beside his brother, wet heap of brown Christmas.

Sam’s entire body shudders and he picks his brother up and turns him supine in his arms to face the ceiling. Dean’s a rag doll, and Sam doesn’t want to think of his ass, bloody and reamed wide.

Dean’s barely with it, his eyes flutter back and forth between consciousness and when Sam makes to set him back down on the pool table, (Sam can’t carry him any further; they’ll both crash) he clings to Sam’s forearm with surprising strength.

“S’mmy,” he says, and Sam can’t make out the words but that sounds like Dean, Sam’s name screwed up in his whore mouth.

Sam blinks over Dean’s body. It’s mottled with color, Lucy-skin painted. Dean’s ribs scrape underneath his skin and Sam’s stomach is pussy-boy weak. Dean’s stretched so thin it’s painful, flesh wrapped tinfoil-tight around marrow.

Sam’s hand flits over Dean and falls gracelessly short.

Sam stuffs Dean in his pants, boxers discarded, flannel hanging open around Dean’s shoulders because Sam doesn’t have the coordination to shove buttons into holes and smooth his brother’s collar down.

He tugs Dean upright, brutal jerk of Dean’s wrist, and the sound his brother makes is a definable moan.

When Sam ends up closing his eyes that night; he’s in his brother’s bed and he’s thinking that a sinner’s a saint that won’t rise.

-

They don’t talk about it.

Dean limps, left-legged to the bathroom and doesn’t bother turning on the sink when he vomits everything up and out.

Sam finds rivulets of blood leaked on the inner rim of the porcelain and he stares at it for a long time before he decides on wiping it clean.

-

_ Just gotta make a little noise _

Sam wakes up to the shiver of his own voice and he’s supposed to be asking Dean why he looks so guilty-pleased about stealing Penny’s diary but he’s more concerned with the tendons collecting against Dean’s throat.

Dean’s mouth is red and open and his eyes settle on Sam for a record-breaking fourteen seconds before they dart over Sam’s head and back down to his dick.

“You gonna tell me what he did or is that up to me too?” Sam says, shoves his papers away and Dean allows the diary to fall from his hand in a heap.

“Thought you said you didn’t remember shit,” Dean says tonelessly, and Sam’s just floored he didn’t lead with the denial.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam says, and he almost falters, taken aback by the malevolence in his voice, for his brother.

Dean blinks at him, and Sam’s standing; he knocks the chair over, nudges the table back a few inches and Dean retreats, takes four steps away and his back connects with plaster.

Sam pauses in his onslaught; his head  _ hurts  _

He can see Dean, neck slack, ass red, Other-Sam above him. 

That’s not his face. That’s not Dean’s brother.

Sam’s crying out and there are two hands cradling his forehead but when he comes back down Dean’s motionless.

“M’right here,” Dean murmurs, unmoving.

Sam’s angrier than before, livid that Dean wouldn’t tell him, wouldn’t expose Sam for the filth he is. That Dean bent double and took it--

Sam slams a palm on either side of Dean’s head and his brother’s eyes flash and then he’s fumbling, jerking pants to ankles, shirt dragged up to his armpits.

Dean’s spinning in the cage of Sam’s arms until his ass is hunched back and Sam leaps away like he’s been flogged.

“Who the fuck--Dean fucking talk to me, man?!”

Sam’s screaming and his head pulsates with every elongation of his words and he can’t see Dean past Other-Dean, the Not-Brother, and this Dean, naked and flushed, isn’t helping.

Dean’s head flops forward and connects to the wall; he doesn’t look behind.

His fingers dip down the crease of his ass and circle. His rim is swollen from the other night and it’s sore-looking, right down to the puffy tip of it.

Sam’s voice gurgles when Dean shoves two shiny-slick fingers in deep, mewls once and then he’s silent.

Sam’s closer, curls his hand around Dean’s wrist to pull his brother’s fingers free but Dean moans and shoves himself back harder, fucks himself around gun-heavy fingers.

“Yours or mine, Sam?” Dean asks-begs and Sam doesn’t know? Is he supposed to? 

“Yours?” Dean says and his hands drop free, spit fingers coming back up to rest on the wall before him, presented for Sam’s consumption.

“Get fucking dressed,” Sam says, means for it to be stern but it comes out plaintive and Dean’s body ripples.

“Please,” Dean says, arching his back pretty (pretty?)

Sam’s hands find their way to Dean’s hips and Dean jerks in his grasp, his body flutters back and forth; he’s humping the wall.

“Fuck me, fuck me, use your fingers, your hand, I don’t give a shit,  _ Christ _ ,” Dean says and that’s enough.

Sam grabs Dean’s hands, both in one fist and pins them behind his brother’s back, noose of Sam’s fingers. Dean faceplants and groans, wanton.

Sam presses three fingers inside the dark place of his brother and Dean whines out loud, slack-jawed and ravenous against the wall.

“Faster, pleasepleaseplease, God Sam, God, please,” Dean says and Sam screws his digits as deep and long as they’ll go. His hand feels four sizes too big and Dean’s blazing inside.

Dean’s body is covered in sweat and his shirt is rucked up high.

His dick’s violet-smeared and bobbing in the heat of the room, chafing against the wall where Sam’s got him pinned.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut but he can still see come leaking out and around of his brother’s asshole and he can count his pulse in the pace of his own headache.

“S’good Sam?” Dean asks, breathless from the hot-dirty way he’s grinding down onto Sam’s thick fingers and Sam presses his pecs harder against Dean’s shoulder blades and grimaces.

“Yes,” Sam grits out and Sam’s palm connects with the soft flesh of Dean’s ass and Dean’s dick jerks and splatters the wall and Dean cries out, hips circling Sam’s hand wildly.

“Keep goin’, please, c’mon Sammy, one more,” Dean’s saying, and Sam wrenches Dean’s hands further down until Dean’s palms are brushing the swell of his ass.

Dean’s lips come unstuck from the wallpaper and his neck lolls back and Sam cries into his brother’s open mouth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so basically I wrote this with one hand over my mouth. I was like, "yes. This is gonna be the end. I'm gonna wrap it up so nice and fucked-up."
> 
> This shit is not over, *wails* because I allow them to write themselves and they make everything so goddamned open-ended. I CAN promise that it'll be over soon (two chapters MAX) because there are only a few more ways this can go. 
> 
> Remember when I thought it was gonna be a trilogy? *wails twice*
> 
> I'm super happy/surprised if you've stuck around this far; tell me what you think about Sammy dusting the place off and coming home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode 6.13: Unforgiven.

Sam’s more than happy to go on ignoring it.

The Not-Sam festers; he wants to play with Dean and Dean bows his head against the onslaught.

The next morning Sam blinks his way into the shared bathroom, nudges his brother aside with a check of the hip, shoulder to thigh.

His hair covers his face and he’s barely awake; is that water hot enough to scald?

Dean leans his back against the sink, palm braced against porcelain and when Sam turns back to look at Dean (how the fuck is he upright) the door snicks shut behind him.

Not-Sam isn’t flammable.

Sam’ll learn the hard way, then.

-

Dean’s face lights up, gold twined between two fingers.

Sam leans away from his brother, safe-space. Dean glances up at him brightly; his limp can be attributed to fighting off a dragon-horde and claiming his own bounty-fee.

“Dean,” Sam says, and Dean stiffens visibly, white-knuckled grip on the watch.

“Yeah?” Dean says, when he seems to understand that Sam requires an answer.

“I’m so, so sorry. I can’t even begin to say,” Sam starts, and the words come out foul. They might as well be a curse. 

Not-Sam cackles in one corner of Sam’s mind and he slaps an errant palm over his forehead in damnation.

His apology’s limp; Dean’s gonna take it as a blanket-statement for everything and Sam’s really only got enough penance for the things he can afford.

Callous disregard of his brother’s life and the stranglehold he simultaneously kept it in.

Dean cocks his head to the side, rubs his big palm against the bone that juts out in his neck. Sam curls his hand around Dean’s shoulder mindlessly and Dean melts into; his bones flop deflated.

Sam trembles at the contact; the response.

“For what?” Dean says; he’s still examining the timepiece like it’s gonna clue him into what’s been happening for the year and change of Not-Sam.

Sam sighs heavily, hand limp on Dean’s body.

“You know what,” Sam says, no preamble, and Dean shudders, lance of give in his body that Sam thought had long been worked out of him.

“Did Bobby--” Dean starts, slides his fingers around the slip of gold and squints it up to the sun. 

Sam wants to grind the shine into the earth and then present it to Dean; is this what you wanted? This look like us now?

“You should have told me,” Sam insists; his fingers tighten past pain, forbearance, and Dean grinds up into the touch and twists into Sam’s palm.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” Dean says, and it comes out plaintive rather than firm. Dean’s eyes dart around the yard, catch on exposed engines and dust-settled metal and not on Sam or that damn watch or anything that marks passage.

“Know what?” Sam asks, wants to pull himself out of the sphere of his brother because it seems to do things to Dean, shit that Sam can’t put a finger on but it’s slippery, nonetheless.

“What I did to you?”

It’s out there, hanging putrid for Dean to smell and Dean makes to recoil but Sam’s body responds, opposite of emotion.

Sam drags him back close, so that Dean’s chest brushes Sam’s abdomen and Sam makes a noise, because Dean tilts his face up, mouth open.

“Now?”

Sam’s forehead creases and then Dean’s sinking to his knees like a prize and Sam’s got his cues all fucking mixed up.

“Dean--” Sam stutters and they’re within view of Bobby’s house, Bobby’s  _ inside,  _ puttering around, trying to figure out what’s sucking virgins out of thin air and Dean’s ghosting his hand around the ridge of Sam’s dick.

“I swear to God man,” Sam whines, and Dean parts his lips, cream-wet and soft, eyes blinking.

“S’huge,” Dean says, reverent, and Sam’s dick threatens an untimely exit. Sam reaches down and connects with any part of his brother he can reach, and his fingers intermingle with blond. 

Dean’s mouth falls slack and Sam panics, dragging his brother up by the strands, violence his domain.

Sam’s not stupid. 

He's also learned the valuable lesson of trial by error and it doesn't fall short here. 

This is not Dean. This isn't his brother and Sam’s smart but he's also got horse blinders soldered to his face. 

Dean pulls away, reflexively, still dog-salivating over Sam’s dick; yeah, that's nice.

Then Dean collapses, provides Sam with the opportunity to gather him upright and he slumps against Sam’s chest, breath moist-hot and heavy.

“Hey,” Sam says; his voice is thin. 

“Baby,” Sam tries, and this is instantaneous regret because Dean recoils, sharp lines of his face and fists.

“Stop fucking--don't fucking touch me,” Dean screams and Sam reels back. 

Dean’s color is high, razor-cheekbones sallow in his barely-there face. 

Sam’s got strands of leftover hair in his palm. 

“Death didn’t just shove your soul back in,” Dean says; he’s not looking up at Sam and he won’t anytime soon, Sam figures. “He put up--he put up the great fucking wall of Sam between you and the things you don’t remember.”

Dean swipes a hand over his mouth like he’s tasted something sour; like he’s even had his mouth around Sam’s ache of a dick.

“You--you trust me when I say the shit you don’t know could kill you, Sam.” Dean meets his gaze head-on, and there’s a quick flash of Brother and then Dean shrugs, careless.

“All right,” Sam says, slow. “But I have to make things right.” 

Dean flinches, imperceptible but it’s a tell nonetheless. 

“It wasn’t you,” Dean says, but his voice is monotone and Sam’s dazed; why’s every other word that comes out of Dean’s mouth got a subtext and a missing handbook that comes to deciphering it?

“What would you do?” Sam asks, but Dean’s still not looking and Sam’s not got it in him to force Dean’s hand.

Bobby’s voice is invasive and welcomed. 

“Boys,” he hollers, not so much an increase in sound as a call for attention, whiskey deep and familiar. 

“Something I think you ought to see.”

He doesn't wait for them to follow, can't really see them behind the lines of steel and twisted rust, and Sam can't say he's eager for that to change. 

“Ladies first Sammy,” Dean smiles, teeth bared in a grin and Sam holds still and doesn't blink and his brother bows his head and pockets the watch. 

Sam learns his lessons well. 

-

There’s a lot of blood covering Sam’s hands.

He dreams about it, sometimes.

Remembers his grandfather, namesake, broad like Sam’s daddy and just as stubborn. 

Sam wonders if they got along famously. He doubts it; Samuel’s just like John and nothing’s good enough for Mary. 

Not even two little boys under school and a man who should’ve bought a damn Volkswagen and left the coffin on wheels to better soldiers.

Sam thinks that they oughta salt n’ burned John’s body long before he went six deep; John’s been a ghost far back as Sam can remember.

Not-Sam and Samuel got along like a forest fire, though.

Sam’s got images playing on a newsreel in his head and he doesn’t think Dean can stomach the idea that he might know more.

Some things are personal.

Sam can filter through The Year: Dean’s sabbatical with Her and The Boy; Sam’s brother cleaned gutters with his bare hands.

Sam’s hands are red like Ruby and Samuel blinks down at him blankly, allows Sam to rise to his full height and breathe his way back to pseudo-decency.

_ You think there were maybe calmer ways we could’ve done that? _

Not-Sam doesn’t grin; everything he does is purposeful, to elicit a response.

_ Do we care? Let’s go. _

-

Sam’s fucked everything with a pulse in Bristol and he doesn’t bother hiding it; Dean’s got a nose for debauchery and he scents it unerringly, every time.

Sam holds himself steady in his seat but he can tell from Dean’s lackluster gaze that it’s not what Dean expects.

It’s not what Dean’s used to.

Dean’s shitting out one of several bricks when she comes up to their table, Agent Roark all honey-tilted in her lying mouth; her husband’s a bland sort of man,  _ idn’t he Sammy? _

Sam’s knee bounces against the bottom of the table, rattling glassware and knives.

He’s back then; leaning decadent against Sam’s mind-house. Not-Sam’s lean, diamond-cut abs that rival even Sam’s own.

Sam’s meticulous about his body; he likes to be able to count and separate his abs, defined V pointing straight down to the dick he’s screwed his brother mute with.

The lines are flat and clean and Sam takes care to keep them so.

He’s begrudgingly grateful that he and Not-Sam seem to agree on that; if Not-Sam’s reasoning is a little more base than Sam’s used to.

_ She gagged for it, let you cuff her up _

Sam trembles once and Dean’s back, face pretty-boy blank, smile wide.

“She just cougar-eyed you,” Dean says, brows bunched together in wheat-rows.

“We worked a case here,” Sam says, and Dean flings him a Polaroid of Not-Sam and their grandfather and makes to stand.

Sam winds his hand around Dean’s wrist, the way he would if he hadn’t pounded his brother to death, murdered anything that might’ve been in Dean’s eyes.

Dean’s body turns and Sam’s hand goes up to Dean’s hip on instinct, steadies his brother.

Dean’s face isn’t empty, just for a second, but Sam can barely read what’s there before Dean’s jerking his bones away, face taut.

“Let’s get the hell outta here.”

-

Dean’s not allowing Sam to stray more than an inch out of his sight and Sam’s skin is crawling with claustrophobia, dank and sweaty.

Dean’s polishing his Beretta in stages, gold’s bent low and he’s whistling like he’s not looking at Sam when that’s all he’s been doing since Sam logged back in.

“You hungry?” Sam asks; his thigh is twitching and he doesn’t really have anything better to do, not since Dean’s gonna leave him here and talk to witnesses without him.

Talk to townsfolk who knew Not-Sam; some of ‘em in the biblical sense.

Sam’s Agent Roark, or he that’s who he was, and he’s nudging that giant memory block before he can think better of it.

_ You’re about as cold as they come, aren’t you son? _

Dean’s shaking his arm abruptly, laser-thin joints hovered over Sam’s wrist like they can’t quite manage to touch.

Sam presses one broad palm over top of his brother’s and smashes Dean’s hand down to connect.

“Let up man,” Dean says, voice tight. “I said I ain’t hungry. If you are, go on and pick something up.”

Dean struggles to get loose again; Sam follows the whites of his eyes. “I’ll probably be gone when you get back,” Dean’s rambling, “follow up with the brunettes.”

Sam recalls (realizes) that Nicole’s missing, first the men, now the women, and Dean doesn’t think he’s in tip-top shape to be interrogating, which makes sense.

“You need to eat,” is what Sam says, and Dean’s face darkens.

“Since when the fuck do you give a shit?” It’s violent, harsh enough to loosen Sam’s grip, were he so inclined. 

Sam holds on tighter; Dean’s an open book like this and Sam’s always been great at learning under pressure.

“Can count your ribs,” Sam says carefully, and Dean’s skin edges from blush-pink to scalding in a matter of seconds.

“Well, running after your de-souled ass takes a lot out a guy,” Dean says, and Sam counts onetwothree layers between Dean’s skin and Sam’s grasp.

“Lemme see,” Sam says, infusing his voice with a kind of firmness he usually staunches, the kind that settles on the backburner because he doesn’t wanna be like that. Be like him; in the end.

“Fuck--fuck you Sam,” Dean says, but he’s not fighting Sam’s hold and he’s shaking, sweat beading up near his temples, his eyes.

“Show me,” Sam says, and it almost comes out high, like a question.

_ C’mon big brother _

“C’mon big brother,” Sam says on autopilot; Not-Sam’s silent in the foreground, eyes closed.

“What’re we working with?” Dean’s fumbling with his flannel, unbuttons it one-handed, dexterous to the last. Sam releases his bird-wrist reluctantly but Dean just uses his newfound freedom to drag his Henley up and off, wife-beater settled neatly underneath.

Dean glances down at Sam; Sam’s legs are wide in order to brace elbows on his thighs.

Sam wants to tell him to finish it but he somehow knows it’ll be the wrong move. Sam holds on to his pawn and Dean shrugs the last of it off, pulls from the bottom and tosses white over his head and behind him.

Dean’s skin is mottled with bruises, supernova explosion of indigo and violet, tracing a tattoo across his ribs and against his sternum.

Sam reaches out to touch and Dean makes a high sound, a whimper, if Sam could classify it, and arches into the touch.

There are several five point markers on Dean’s skin, constellation of prints and Sam knows his truth but he lines his fingers up anyway.

His palm fits perfectly over finger-shaped bruises and Sam bears down against them, mind numbed with how hard could he have possibly been holding Dean down to make these?

How violent his grip?

Dean mewls and Sam’s other hand comes up to frame the other half of Dean’s body as his brother topples forward.

“Hop on,” Sam whispers; he hopes Dean doesn’t notice because he can’t look away from the carnage of his brother’s body.

Dean trembles and then he’s lifting one leg, preparing to straddle Sam’s hips, and Sam realizes that just won’t do.

“Pants,” Sam says,  _ please,  _ he thinks, and Dean’s right leg drops back down to the floor and he drags his pants down and off in one motion, dick bobbing up to kiss the air because Sam’s brother isn’t wearing boxers, isn’t wearing a damn thing.

Dean’s dick is candy-cane pink, curved up to slap wetly against his stomach and it must sense Sam’s gaze, it quivers a bit in trepidation. 

Dean opens his mouth and then it falls shut and Sam wants him to talk, wants his brother’s mouth open on his name and it horrifies him; the lengths he’d go to for that.

“Don’t fucking stand there,” Sam says, and the anger is easier to grit out this time, because he’s livid. He’s furious and burning and Sam leans back in his chair so that Dean has room to swing one pale leg over Sam’s thigh and then his brother’s ass settles down, slight.

Sam spreads his legs further open, just to watch Dean’s legs follow suit.

Sam can count Dean’s ribs, increments of three, and there’s not a clear patch of skin on Dean’s chest.

Dean’s hands are tucked by his sides and his body is one stiff line.

“C’mon then,” Sam says, sickly-sweet chill. “Act like you love me; hold on.”

Dean’s eyes drop, flutter-lashes sprinkling against downcast cheeks and Sam almost loses, right here. His brother’s breathtaking, should never be trussed up and served like this, not to anyone that can’t love him. Not to someone whose only joy is in the desecration.

Dean’s arms come up and tangle around Sam’s neck.

Sam reaches a palm up and shoves Dean’s head down hard, bracing Dean’s cheek on Sam’s collarbone so that his big brother’s neck is exposed.

Dean’s breathing like he’s being chased and all Sam can see is the fine slope of Dean’s back, the vertebrae that stretch out like a map to aim for Dean’s tailbone; the fine mounds of his ass.

Dean’s rocking on his lap, such small movements that Sam doubts his brother even knows he’s doing it.

What’s next, Sam wants to say but Sam curls one hand underneath the slut-spread of Dean’s cheeks and wiggles index and middle into the crease.

Dean lurches further up into Sam’s chest and Sam’s dick is clawing at his zipper; Dean must be able to feel it against his own.

Dean’s breathless and Sam wants to hear him speak; he’s gotta hear something or else he won’t be able to get through this.

“Tell me please, huh?” Sam tries, and Dean shivers. “Say please and I’ll stuff you full,” Sam adds, and then he cranes his neck back a little so he can watch Dean’s mouth open on a cry.

His brother’s eyes are screwed shut but his mouth is hanging open, gentle and warm.

“Please Sammy,” Dean whispers, and Sam nudges the tip of his index in; dry.

“SamSammy, please, fuck, please, gotta get em in, put ‘em all in,” Dean says, louder and more frantic and Sam’ll be damned if he spears his brother dry.

Sam pulls his fingers out entirely and Dean makes some kind of bastard whine but Sam shoves his fingers slick in Dean’s mouth and his brother moans, sucks greedily.

Dean’s panting for it, tongue laving around every crevice of Sam’s hand, sucks three of Sam’s fingers so deep in his mouth that Sam’s momentarily afraid Dean’s trying to gag on his wrist.

Sam drags his digits free and wanders back down to Dean’s hole, soft and wrinkled and wildly used, winking underneath Sam’s feather-touch.

Dean’s gasping for air and Sam punches home, two fingers tight and scissors wide.

Dean’s eyes fly open and he’s stuck on a litany of yesyesSamgodyes

And then Sam crooks his fingers and nudges the tip of his ring finger inside and Dean explodes over both of them, thick cock spraying milk-white over Sam’s flannel; Sam’s v-neck.

Dean’s not-so-dry humping away at him, high scream caught in his throat, rocking the chair with every thrust and Sam’s light-headed.

Dean came from nothing but the threat of more, tiny asshole clutching to Sam’s fingers.

Dean’s head is wobbling back and his hands are scrambling between two bodies to find Sam’s belt and unbuckle it.

Sam’s dick is trembling; he can’t stop the manic pulse that’s sweeping through it.

He wants to slide up into the slightly dry heat of Dean and knock Dean loose against his lap and this chair. 

Dean knows it; their eyes meet and Dean’s are still hooded but they’re self-aware; he sucks his lower lip into that trap of a mouth and Sam’s hands settle on Dean’s floundering ones.

“Go follow up with them,” Sam grinds out, and the back of Dean’s neck heats instantaneously.

“I’ll be here.”

 

-

Sam’s a liar but that’s fine because that’s what Dean expects from him.

Sam understands that the Arachne took control of its victims and he really didn’t have anything to do with that.

What he’s having a hard time dealing with is the way that Not-Sam’s grinning, canines of his teeth sharp as he forces Sam to recall his heavy-handed brand of justice.

_ They’re just dead men walking _

_ I say we put ‘em out of their misery _

Sam recoils with every recalled gunshot and Not-Sam’s laughing so hard he’s doubled over and Sam’s brother is holding onto his arm, voice rough.

“Sam?” Dean cries, “Sammy??”

Sam waves him back and away but Dean guides him to his bed just the same, settles Sam down and bends, works to drag Sam’s boots off.

“Stupid fuck, you know that?” Dean says. 

“Tell you to do one thing, tell you to stay the fuck here,” Dean mutters, “you’re runnin’ on E but you gotta play hero.”

Sam’s grabbing Dean before he can think better of it, and he thinks he might’ve reopened a wound on Dean’s forearm but he can’t stop.

“Pants Dean, off,” Sam says, scrambles, and Dean blinks unsure for a second and then he’s dragging his pants down, mirror of a few hours ago.

Sam’s not looking at his brother; he wants to but he knows if he does he’ll lose his nerve.

Dean’s near silent; his belt clinks as it hits the floor and Sam feels the stutter of air that comes when Dean tugs his shirt off.

Sam shoves his pants down to mid-thigh and glares down hard at his dick, like he can will it into submission, beat the desire for Dean’s Sam-thirsty hole into obedience.

He looks up for his brother, ignores the fat-hot flush of his dick, carved up to jut proudly in the air, blood-tipped and shaking.

Dean’s not in front of him but his clothes are, and Sam’s gonna rip the Earth into pieces if Dean’s gone and run off on him.

“Dean!” Sam yells, more harshly than he would’ve liked, and Dean comes back into view, half-in and out of the bathroom, two fingers squishing around in his ass like they belong there.

Dean’s slack-jawed and his legs are bowed wide so he can really carve his fingers deep.

“Get the fuck over here,” Sam says, breathless, and Dean’s fingers hang motionless but they stay inside his ass until he’s facing Sam, dick level with Sam’s mouth.

Sam twists Dean around, one flick of his hands around Dean’s china-waist and his brother’s wrist is stretched back uncomfortably, shining with slick, fingers fluttering in the grip of his hole.

Sam’s not thinking when he drags Dean free of his fingers and places both hands on Dean’s hips, guides his brother all the way down so Dean can take a seat on his dick.

“F-fucking monster,” Dean whines and Sam screws him down harder; if he can talk he can take.

Sam whistles when the head pops through, audible squelch that’s dirtier than anything he’s ever heard before.

Dean’s hands scrabble for purchase on Sam’s naked thighs and Sam slams him the rest of the way home, Sam’s chest curved up to meet the sweat-stain of Dean’s quivering back.

Sam’s mind comes back online,  _ is he hurt? I hurt him? _

But Dean’s trying to bounce in reverse on Sam’s dick but Sam’s hold around his hipbones has him stuck. Locked.

“You hear me,” Sam says suddenly, spider-flash of memory feinting across his eyelids.

“You can have this,” Sam says, “you can have me, ‘n I’ll keep you,” Sam continues, “but it’s not gonna be like that.”

Dean’s body is taut and limp in unison and Sam shakes his brother so hard that Dean’s head bobs.

“You’re not  _ dying  _ for this,” Sam begs and then he’s lifting Dean up to fuck him back down, hips rising to meet the jiggle of Dean’s ass.

Dean’s neck falls back and his throat lays pink and Sam’s gonna fuck that answer right out of him.

“Sam--Christ, Sammy, fuck like you’re ‘bout to die,” Dean slurs, likely unaware that he even made words, let alone a sentence.

Sam knocks Dean’s knees looser, wider, and then his body seizes up and his head pulsates and his hands tighten so hard around the non-soft of Dean’s middle that his nails break skin, call forth blood.

Sam’s eyes are wide but he can’t see and he can feel himself toppling backward, dick sliding free of Dean.

His nails drag against Dean’s skin as they release but Sam can’t touch any of that.

_ I’m having a seizure _

But then his vision shatters and then coalesces into a bigger picture, a offensive play-by-play of The Year, and then there’s bright red-orange, burning flesh smells like charred meat.

Smells like the Fourth.

“My  _ God _ ,” Sam hears, and he turns, fully clothed, in what appears to be his own mind. Sam wouldn’t know; he hasn’t seen the place in some time.

It’s empty in here, all-white backdrop that leads to nothing, begins nowhere.

“Or should I say My Dad?” Sam hears, and Lucifer strides into view, dressed like Sam’s brother, flannel and jeans, open at the neck.

“Doesn’t have as nice a ring to it, huh?”

Sam doesn’t speak.

“Either way, thank  _ fuck  _ you’re here,” Lucifer says. “It’s a fucking mess,” Lucifer says with an expansive spread of his arms. “Roadmap to empty.”

Lucifer grins.

“Highway to Hell, if you will.”

“What do you want?” Sam says; he’s scraped raw with the remembrance of the Cage, four-walled prison that defies dimensions, defies space and time.

His blood leaked against Lucifer’s palms, entrails curdled and huddled into the corner for Lucifer to jolt back inside Sam’s body when he saw fit.

“Thought I’d have to play-act for the rest of your life,” Lucifer drawls. “Shoulda gone for a career on the stage; I know it. I know it.” Lucifer shakes his head in faux-melancholy and then looks up, smile bordering on animalistic.

“Cause damn,” Lucifer says, and then his body morphs, changing shape, growing taller and broader in the shoulders, hair dancing from light to chocolate.

Sam looks across the way, at himself, the Not-Sam; the Soulless Brother and he’s grinning, his mouth full of teeth and deception.

“I’d make a  _ fantastic  _ Winchester.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ACTUALLY ON SCHEDULE FOR ONCE.  
> This is finally doing what I want it to do, so next chapter should be the last.
> 
> Here's to praying they don't fuck anything up (although Hallucifer is gonna be a pain in my ass; I can already feel it).
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me on this ride; tell me what you think about the reveal/any questions you have!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This spans until the end of season six, give or take.  
> The Devil is in Bold, Soulless!Sam in Italics. (It's pretty obvious, but it might be helpful to know that from the get-go).

Dean doesn’t dress.

That’s the first thing Sam notices when he comes back online, all cylinders firing, and it pales in comparison to meeting Lucifer on the spiritual playing field.

His head is smashed in with memories, roiling around like hot garbage, and Dean’s naked, legs splayed wide and his hands are fluttering over every inch of Sam’s skin.

“Jesus.” Dean says, voice shot. “Fucking Christ, man, give a guy a warning, would you?”

Dean’s face is grinning but his eyes are vacant and dilapidated; there’s not a single soul home.

“Dean,” Sam says, but Dean’s rocketing his legs wider and his dick is still bobbing between them, claret-flush and thick, heavy against the small of his stomach.

“You coming, Sammy?” Dean says, and he rocks forward on his thighs, spreads his ass to the cool of the room even though Sam can’t see it yet.

“Got me wet’n open for you an’ you’re not even gonna do anything about it,” Dean says, and Sam’s legs lock against the bedspread even as his cock responds, firming against his thigh for his brother.

Dean glances down at it and smiles, slow-turn of his body so Sam can examine the arch of his spine, thirty-three vertebrae that Sam can count out individually.

Sam follows the hook of bone down to Dean’s ass, the only part of him with any remaining fat, pale and lush underneath Sam’s hands (when did he will himself to touch)?

Dean’s slick and gaping, widening against Sam’s gaze and Dean arches his ass back in impatience, roots around for Sam’s fingers, his dick.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Dean pleads, and there’s a thirst in there that Sam’s left untapped but Lucifer’s dangling on his shoulder, Not-Sam on the other side, malevolent grins.

_ Pretty like this, isn’t he? _

_ Cries as good as he feels _

Sam’s hands drag Dean’s hips closer and the crown snags on Dean’s hole and it blossoms, hungry for the press forward.

Dean mewls, hands caught in sheets and he shoves backwards, catches the tip and squirms when Sam holds him firm, disallows him further movement.

Sam blinks down at the way he’s sheathed and Dean’s whimpering, grinding back so desperately that Sam’s not sure his brother knows he’s speaking.

“Fuck, c’mon, fuck me, c’mon, please, Sam,  _ please, _ ” Dean begs, and Sam tugs himself free, shudders in loss and blinks down at Dean’s sweat-stained back.

His brother’s skin is mottled blue-black and the Devil may care.

-

**_Well fuck me, you go around killing everybody with your bloodline?_ **

The Other Brother grins wide, situated next to Lucifer, arms crossed over his chest. How himself can seem bigger than himself is beyond Sam’s understanding.

_ S’not like that, Sammy can’t keep a family to save his life _

Lucifer grins wild and stretches his arms above his head. 

**_Can’t quite save your own life, can you, Sammy?_ **

Sam’s head languishes and he wants to scream but it’ll confuse Dean and his brother’s still walking bent, ass hanging in Sam’s view like he could forget about it without the visual reminder.

Dean’s eating about half a meal more than he was Before but Sam knows he doesn’t keep it down, dribbles it out of his mouth at four in the morning.

It’s too predictable to be anything other than a cry for help but Sam feigns sleep when Dean wobbles back to bed, spearmint-ladened tongue.

They don’t think it’s really him, and Sam understands that.

“Drop the gun.” Bobby says, firm-like and Dean makes up the rear, head swiveling between the three of them, minus his grandfather’s corpse.

“Just gotta cuff you, uh, til we can be sure,” Rufus apologizes.

Sam flexes his hands against the rope and stares down at the coagulation of Samuel’s blood.

“You wanna know about your summer vacation?” Samuel asks, doesn’t know that Sam’s got a newsreel of crime playing against his eyelids, superimposed by Satan himself.

He doesn’t need a refresher course.

Dean twists his fingers together, hard, hands hidden by the sleeves of his jacket. The fabric swallows him whole and the jut of his collarbone peeks over top of his shirt.

Sam wants to gnaw down until blood climbs to the surface and spills over, paints Dean as red as The Other Brother, and then some.

**_Sammy, Sam Winchester, you get your damn mind outta the gutter, you hear?_ **

Sam’s arms are locked and he can’t cover his ears against Satan’s cackle, even though it wouldn’t serve any purpose beyond physical comfort.

“What would mom say?” Sam asks his brother, watches Rufus and Bobby head out to the car to prepare for splicing Samuel further open, headshot.

Dean looks confused, veins peppering his skin, and Sam’s breath stutters because he did that. No matter what his body was doing, all on its own, running around without a driver, Dean’s sallow and sullen because of him.

Dean turns to face him and his jaw is set; he’s braced up.

“She’d say just cause you’re blood don’t make you family,” Dean says, eyes hard. “You gotta earn that.”

Sam wants to knock his shoulder into his brother’s, figures Dean would slant Mary’s words into Dean-speak, but Dean’s got four years on him and it’s enough.

_ He doesn’t lie so much when you keep his mouth locked around your dick _

Sam grunts, leg jolts and smacks against the floor.

“Sam? Sammy?!” Dean says, and Sam looks up with a grin before Dean can run out for Bobby.

“M’good, hey, m’fine,” Sam assures, as much as he can with his arms bound like this. 

They come back to splice his brother’s grandfather open.

-

Dean’s laconic after they leave the cemetery, Bobby’s limping, jolted through with electricity to send that worm tumbling out of his body like mucus.

Sam doesn’t know religious rules around a Jewish death, but he figures Rufus wouldn’t have followed them unless it suited him, regardless.

“You really think they’ll keep our kids in pens?” Sam asks, tries for lighthearted. “I like to think Eve’ll be more creative than that.”

Dean’s laying across the bed, hands folded across his sternum and he mutters something.

“What?” Sam asks, stepping closer.

“Shut the fuck up, Sam,” Dean repeats, louder, hauls in his air like it costs him to breathe.

_ Just like you, Winchester. No spine, not when it counts _

Sam grunts loud, claps his hands over his ears and groans it out. 

He can hear Dean climbing off of the bed, grunt of pain as Dean apparently clips his knee on some portion of the bed.

Sam’s hand shoots out, palm connected with the unforgiving skin of Dean’s neck. Dean’s body slaps to a halt as he crashes into Sam’s hand, and his brother shudders in his grip.

“Sam--” Dean grits out, and Sam tightens his hand, hauls Dean closer. Dean’s socked feet drag against the carpet as Sam lifts him a few inches off the ground in order to pull him in.

Dean’s in boxers and a t-shirt and Sam glances down, catches the tip of his brother’s dick, peeking forth, unwilling.

Dean’s close enough that his breath fans out against Sam’s cheek and Sam’s hand spasms against its will, tightening around Dean’s trachea.

“Unh, unh,” Dean whimpers, and Sam watches, fascinated, as his brother’s dick hardens further, obscene against the swell of fabric.

“You got anything better to say?” Sam asks; his voice is too loud and Dean’s toes are scrabbling for purchase.

“Fuck, fuck,” Dean whispers, and Sam follows the line of his hand down, the color’s leached from Dean’s face but his brother isn’t struggling, mouth parted slightly for air.

Dean’s hands flutter at his boxers and he knocks them free, shoves them down thick thighs and Sam crushes his mouth to his brother’s, bites down so hard on Dean’s lower lip that it splits open under pressure.

Dean mewls and Sam’s fingers have tightened past the point of pain, of reason.

Sam pulls back and snakes a hand down to cup his brother’s ass; it quivers under the unexpected attention.

“Fuck,” Sam whispers, and Dean’s neck lolls back in his hands. Dean spreads his legs wider, steps out of his boxers entirely and Sam sneaks his fingers down the crease of Dean’s ass.

His hole twitches under the exploration and Sam presses his thumb inside, just the tip, unforgiving slide.

Dean’s eyes flutter at the contact and Sam grunts.

“Thought you’d be wet for me,” Sam says, allows the unhappiness to color his tone, and Dean mewls, unable to make more words.

“Keep yourself all slicked up,” Sam growls, attempts to drag Dean in again but he’s already kissing Sam’s chest and Dean’s hands are knicking up his thighs in pain.

Sam watches the pale nail-crescents bloom against Dean’s skin and he wants to devour his brother alive.

_ Christ; he’s pretty like this _

**_Don’t you think that’s a bit blasphemous, Sammy_ **

They’re battling for attention in his head, clamor where there was blessed silence, only the wax-hot drip of his brother, dick rigid and leaking against his stomach.

Sam’s own cock is pressing painfully at his zipper, he wants to ease it down and blow into his brother’s face but he locks his knees against the onslaught of desire.

“Hold yourself open for me,” Sam breathes; his voice is scraped-raw and he can’t understand the filth pouring out, but Dean’s eyes are obsidian and he scrambles to shove his hands behind his back.

Dean’s dull fingertips pull at flesh, and Sam hooks his chin over his brother’s shoulder to watch.

The cream of his ass bleeds sun-shade-pale and Sam can see the dusk of his hole, shuddering under all the attention.

“More,” Sam gasps, and he doesn’t recognize himself, the swirl of Other and Sam Winchester, almost-law student, Sometimes Alive.

Dean pulls further; Sam’s fingers and palm are beginning to ache around the grip he’s got around his brother’s throat.

Dean whimpers, low whine trapped in his isolated mouth.

“S’right,” Sam breathes, disconnected. “Jesus, that’s fucking beautiful,” Sam says, reverent for Dean in the way he’s supposed to summon for God; but they’re synonymous, all the same.

Dean’s hips jerk forward, he searches for Sam’s hip, hot friction-burn, but Sam holds himself out of reach. 

Sam drags his thumb down the cavern of Dean’s ass and scrapes the nail over his hole, again and again, just to feel Dean spasm against him, keep himself spread for Sam’s eyes, only him.

Never again.

“C’mon,” Sam whispers, puts tacky lips next to his brother’s ear and bites down on the lobe, too hard; he splits that open, too.

“Just like this,” Sam says, “gonna come from me playing with your hole,” Sam demands, the voice is his but it’s splintered and Dean’s letting out a continuous, bitten-off wail, courtesy of Sam’s hand.

Sam shoves his thumb in, unexpectedly, buries it to the hilt, the webbing of skin, and Dean’s head thrashes next to Sam’s chin and his hands make to fall away from his cheeks.

“Open, keep ‘em like that,” Sam gasps, and Dean jerks wildly, body humping and thrashing the air as he comes, tears spilling down sunken cheeks, impaled on the intrusion of Sam’s finger.

Dean’s body collapses, all emaciated weight slumped on Sam’s body, and They’re howling when Sam’s brother passes out.

-

Dean doesn’t wake up that night.

He doesn’t come to until six the next morning and Sam’s sitting in a chair next to the bed, hands braced on knees.

**_You gonna apologize? Sammy, Sammy, you didn’t mean it then and you won’t mean it now_ **

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam says, growls it louder than he meant. 

“Mornin’ to you too,” Dean rasps; his voice sounds like he chainsmokes for fun and Sam launches onto the bed beside to him, flicks the lamp on for relief.

Dean’s eyes are slanted open; he’s naked under the blanket and Sam drags it down low enough to get a good look at his throat.

His skin is mottled with the imprint of Sam’s hand, fingers curl from sternum and close around the nape of Dean’s neck.

Sam’s big, hands built proportionate, but one hand shouldn’t be able to connect around his brother’s throat like that.

Sam’s hands are trembling, he reaches out one palm to brush against the livid blue-black-diamond bruise of his brother’s skin, and Dean quivers in place.

“Fuck,” Sam breathes,

_ Look at him, that’s you. You make him look like that _

Sam groans and Dean’s legs spread on instinct, libido hardwired to the sound.

“Wanna--you wanna go again?” Dean asks, tentative like  _ Sam’s  _ gonna be the one to invite the pushback.

“You haven’t even seen yourself,” Sam says dully, twists one hand up into his own hair and pulls, wrecked.

“Want both hands this time?” Dean asks, tilts his chin up and back and his eyes are vacant but focused and he’s already pushing the sheet down his legs, mouth dropped open so Sam can feed him his dick inch by thick inch.

_ Shit, you never been forcing him _

**_Brother’s starving, Sammy, you gonna fill him up?_ **

They’re both talking at once and Sam’s head trickles and oozes free of his cranium.

Lucifer grins wide and then steps around the Other Brother and angles the camera of Sam’s mind so that it’s peering right into his eyes.

**_Remember when you burnt that house down? Family of six, y’know,_ ** Lucifer says, and Sam’s hand slaps down on Dean’s collarbone, loud bruise in the dead morning air.

Dean huffs out, his body splayed relaxed, open for the taking.

**_You and Grandpappy, monster was bound to the family. No sense is trying to save them all, other families in the neighborhood. Parents don’t take too well to losing their kids_ **

Sam grits his teeth, locks them together so hard that they grind in his jaw, open up new aches where there were none.

**_Your words, Sammy_ **

_ Your dick’s the only thing that keeps him in line _

Sam wails, drags himself away from his brother and Dean struggles to sit up, allows the blanket to fall away completely.

Sam’s eyes stay wide but he can’t see Dean anymore, nothing but the glow of conflagration, two story suburban home; the youngest screams the loudest.

The Not-Sam stands with his hands stuffed in his pockets, peers up into the flames, unmoved by the intensity of the heat.

It’s darker than sin out here and Not-Sam blinks up at the stars; they’re quickly becoming obscured by the smoke.

Their neighbors are waking, lights flicker into existence.

The Other’s face curls. Friends are screaming now, compounding the wails of the Hart family. How the fuck is he supposed to know when the job’s done?

When everyone’s yelling and all the horror holds the same intangible timbre?

Samuel turns away from him, vomits into the grass.

He doesn’t make a sound, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stands upright, almost of height with Sam.

“You might be blood, boy,” Samuel says, and there’s still a curl of warmth in his voice that Not-Sam can’t fathom, doesn’t care to understand.

“But you ain’t got a shred of heart in there, d’you?”

“Heart’s what saving lives, I forgot, that’s it, right?” Sam says.

Samuel steps in his own vomit as they stride away.

Dean’s on hands and knees when Sam returns to the land of the cognizant and the sun’s risen enough so that Sam can count off his digits on the tapered stretch of his brother’s skin.

His dick thickens against his will.

-

“Grant’s Pass, Oregon,” Lenore says, and Bobby exchanges a look with Dean.

“Well, let’s go see,” Bobby says, and Sam takes a step closer, remembers the clean spread of her fangs. Wonders what they’d feel like, dipping into his flesh.

_ Now why don’t we ask Dean? I know you remember that one _

“Kill me,” Lenore says; her gaze wheels from one to the other on a pendulum.

“I hear her voice all the time.”

**_Sammy-boy, takes two to tango, why don’t you get up in there and tell her that crazy is as crazy does_ **

“You’re not like the rest of them,” Sam says, winces against the chorus of agony in his head, the way they’re brutalizing his consciousness and his mind.

The way she looks at him, stings like pity. 

It resembles knowing and Sam can’t understand how she can see through the center of him, when Dean’s got one hand in his pocket and one eye trained on Sam’s countenance.

“I fed. I’ll do it again. I can’t stop, not anymore,” she pleads. She’s only looking at him, and ain’t that some shit?

Isn’t that how they always wanna go out? Waxing poetic because poor Sammy’s soul can take that, right?

“Lenore,” Sam says, and Cas brushes her face and he withers her from the inside out.

“We needed to move this along,” Cas explains, monotone apology.

**_Where’s that on my team? Fuck, expediency is in the eye of the beholder, don’t you think, Sammy?_ **

Dean’s come up next to him but it feels like suffocation; he wants to wrap himself underneath his brother’s skin but Dean’s too brittle for that to suffice.

**_Don’t be pissed Sam, it throws off your complexion. You know how sick you look when you’re pale._ **

They jostle for attention.

The uppercut of Dean’s hips wins out.

-

The kids tangle together in the back of the Impala and Dean’s behind the wheel, face twisted in warmth as Ryan tells Joe to get some sleep.

Sam’s fingers curl around his own thighs and for once, the Devil holds his tongue.

-

They’re driving away from the hospital and Sam’s legs are twitching under his self-imposed silence and Dean turns to look at him.

“You mention Lisa or Ben to me again, and I’ll break your nose.”

Sam’s body slumps forward at the unexpected venom in his brother’s voice, and his body isn’t immune to it; the rush of anger he feels is unwarranted at best.

“Dean.” Sam says, and Dean’s done looking at him, hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

“I mean it,” Dean says, and Not-Sam breathes his laughter right down Sam’s neck.

_ Big boy’s back in town. Pushing you like he does when you got something he wants _

Sam takes the hint.

-

“She’s dead,” Sam says, and Dean tumbles to the bed, every beat of his body spelling out exhaustion.

“Got it, I’m the one who got bit, remember?”

Sam does, recalls the flesh-give of his brother’s neck, the unreasonable anger that Dean’s marked up like that, by someone who’s  play acting as their mother.

“Lemme alone for a bit, Sam,” Dean says, cutting to the quick of Sam’s questioning.

Sam’s already rising, and when he knocks Dean flat against the bedspread he doesn’t take the time to regret it.

“S’not what you need, and you damn well know it,” Sam says, and Dean’s face blanks out.

“This isn’t about your time playin’ house, or your time with--” Dean shudders and Sam presses on, inexorable.

“Warming up His dick,” Sam spits, and Dean wails, it curls up from his brother’s mouth and Sam leans down to lick the sound from in between his teeth.

“That’s mine,” Sam says, hushed and afraid, and Dean nods underneath him, compliant.

“World’s about to go to shit and this s’what I need you to fucking remember.”

**_Thataboy Sammy!_ **

Lucifer rages but Not-Sam is vacant and Sam screws closer, knocks Dean’s legs open so they strain to contain him.

This isn’t about Dean belonging to him or any of the other shit Not-Sam’s supposed to be spewing right now.

It’s more about Dean knowing that the two aren’t mutually exclusive; Dean can belong to himself and be Sam’s personal and still not implode and Sam can’t say that in any way Dean’ll accept.

So, he carves himself dick-space and Dean accommodates, still too trusting and needy and his brother hauls his legs up to his chest and Sam spits so that it flows down over Dean’s taint, his hole.

Dean rocks into three fingers easy and Sam holds index and middle in a v as he pops the head of his cock inside all that warmth and Dean exhales, eyes shut so tight his veins make a spectacular reappearance.

“Just take it for me,” Sam says, holds his breath and Dean nods, won’t stop nodding; he’s coming apart.

“You like that?” Sam asks, wants to shut his gutter-mouth but looking down on the pink of Dean’s skin and the lean sprawl of his limbs makes that impossible, “you like bein’ open and wet for me?”

“All choked up on your brother’s dick?”

Dean’s hips quiver and he grinds down like he’s trying to suck cock up into his lungs and Sam’s hands come down to splay against the sides of Dean’s head.

“Open up for me, baby,” Sam whispers, and Dean falters but then he does, pupils split-moss green and dilated, all hungry for Sam’s too-big dick.

Dean whimpers, face tight with frustration and Dean’s hard, sloppy wet at the tip and leaking, mushroom head tilted slightly to the right, but whatever it is, it’s not enough.

Dean sucks his lower lip into his mouth and Sam’s gonna burn out quick because he loves Dean like he’s incapable of loving anything else, and the fact that he’s spent this long brutalizing his brother into pieces is beyond his range of forgiveness.

Dean reaches for his hand, the one beside his cheek and Sam goes willingly, balls slapping Dean’s ass as his brother drops five fingers down against his throat.

“Puh-please,” Dean cries, thick sobs building in his bitten mouth.

“Like this, gotta do it like this, Sammy, p-please, God,” Dean says, and then he’s done talking because Sam’s squeezing, a modicum of pressure from how it was before and Dean’s already spilling, hot and untouched like he’s wired to Sam like that.

Dean’s dick squirms, hot and creamy, and it splatters Dean up to his neck, gentle freckles on Sam’s constricting hand.

Dean’s exhausted but his eyes keep begging and Sam presses further down and Dean whines in bliss.

Sam pumps his brother full and swivels his dick in the hot aftermath, keeps Dean plugged up with his come and there’s nothing but Sam in this room.

-

“Please, just, gimme a minute to think.”

The woman is understandably scared, and he doesn’t wanna frighten her any further.

He knows he’s a big guy, can see that much from the way he hovers over people, the strangers that were quick to get out of his way when he was running.

He’s built strong; he works out, body rippling under good care.

“What’s your name?”

_ C’mon, what do they call us? I’d tell you, but shit, I love a good game _

“I don’t know.”

The girl’s mouth drops; she’s puzzled and doesn’t bother to hide it.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Pictures flutter behind his eyes, bright skin and summer-eyes, blossom and cream managed underneath his capable hands.

It sends a frisson of arousal that he’s not ready for, and there’s a heavy laugh coming from inside his burning head that sounds like him (but he’s not an authority on Him, so, there’s that).

“I mean, I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMFG this has been a fucking wild ride. Shit.
> 
> I still have fun soulless!Sam headcanons but I think this one is wrapped up (not like the muse won't smack me in the ass for preemptively saying that).
> 
> Sorry this took so goddamn long; tell me what you thought!
> 
> Addendum: it's been a long ass while since I saw season six (let alone some others) but the last segment of this chapter occurs after Cas has broken down Sam's wall, (or Godstiel, I suppose) and now Sam is running blind, because he's lucid dreaming all of this, but his body comatose in the Panic Room, where he's a prisoner of his own mind. I hope that suffices, I had to reach wayyy back to remember how all that went down, myself!

**Author's Note:**

> creep me at brosamigos.tumblr.com


End file.
